


Roots

by EmpokNor



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Caretaking, Descriptions of graphic violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Recovery, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Survivor Guilt, Touching, War, finding each other in a time of crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-01-13 05:44:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21239135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpokNor/pseuds/EmpokNor
Summary: Snow is falling like cotton from the sky, deceivingly beautiful, muddling his path, but he keeps holding on to the body in his arms,holding it tight, protecting its breath.A few more steps, then he's there. Minutes, seconds, footprints on the path.The light, he can see it.I’m saving the life of a doctor, he thinks. He should be the one saving mine.-Winter wars. Scandinavia. Borders. A lonesome tailor finds a field doctor in the snow, and nurses him back to health.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclaimer: This is very loosely based on the Finnish Winter Wars. Set in a near future. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.

22.02.2043

21.07

The wind is brisk and short. Puffs of air crystallise into clouds, rains even snows through hardened lips. 

Dry lips. 

The air is dry, although it’s cold. Not wet cold, not like the coast. Dry. Like sandpaper. Like every breath is a punishment for your lungs. 

He walks the closed up path for the fourth time that day. To the shop, back, back again, home. 

Two people stopped by. A ripped jacket without colour and a pair of worn down trousers. 

Small projects. Keeping minds busy, restless souls at ease. 

He worked on a wedding dress - a sad, lonely garment that would never be picked up again. 

He loves that dress. It was left with him years ago when no one suspected an occupation, and still, it stayed with him, when its suitor didn’t need it anymore. Now, it was a full-time project. He can work on it for hours without getting tired, embroidering another flower, re-sowing the lower lace or the underskirt. 

Snow dangles down the branches like stuffed pillows. Like feathers on a swan - long and soft. 

One step. Another. His feet leaving prints, crunching, cracking, pressing to the ground. 

By the corner of his eye he can see something. 

A fox? 

It’s not a fox. Something red, though. And grey. 

He turns. 

A man. A man, buried in the fresh white duvet, covered in darkness and falling shadows from trees. If it wasn’t for the faint light from the highway he couldn’t have noticed the grey and red. But they’re bright. Thank god they’re bright. 

For the first time this winter, he cuts away from the path. Red comes closer. It is a man, he can see that clearly now - a red hat, a grey jacket, grey trousers, a bag over his shoulder, a cross - a cross? A doctor. 

He faces away in the snow. He’s white. Like a sheet. 

He’s breathing. 

Still, barely but still. He’s breathing. 

He leans down. Pulse weak. Body heavy. Steadily, he lifts, with his legs, carrying the fragile yet heavy bundle of clothing and blood and man in his arms. One arm falls down from the side and dangles as he walks back to the path, back to the light. 

The head falls over. It looks peaceful. 

His skin is darker yet drained from colour, his eyelashes long, hair hiding under the red hat. With the cross. Lips are purple. Breath is frail. 

How long as he been there? 

How long would he have lasted?

Snow is falling like cotton from the sky, deceivingly beautiful, muddling his path, but he keeps holding on to the body in his arms, 

holding it tight, protecting its breath. 

A few more steps, then he's there. Minutes, seconds, footprints on the path. 

The light, he can see it. 

I’m saving the life of a doctor, he thinks. He should be the one saving mines. 

  
  
  


-

  
  


23.02.2043

09.17 

  
  


Julian woke up. 

The room bathed in light. 

He’d never seen the room before. The last thing he remembered wasn’t indoors. It was outside, the cold, running, limping, moving until limbs wouldn’t move any further. 

Then it was all black. 

He should have died. Why wasn’t he dead? 

White curtains. Thick, timbered walls, a busy bookshelf and an ugly lamp shade. 

He felt nauseous. Fingers prickled, wouldn’t move, hands, arms, shoulders - nothing. Deep breath. It hurt. Breathing hurt. 

He tried further. 

A nasty, burn flickered, then returned, and struck him so hard he couldn’t draw a breath. Legs. They wouldn’t listen. He wanted to tear away the blanket, the thick, rough layers of fabric holding him down, heavy. 

Suddenly, footsteps. 

His instincts told him to defend himself but the following thought made him stop. 

Who? 

Squeak. 

Door. 

Silence. 

There, in the doorway, to the right, stood a man, a tray balanced in his hands and eyes piercing straight into his own. Thick black hair, like a magpie, slicked back in an older fashion, side parting, wrinkles by his eyes yet he wasn’t old. He looked steady. Flannel shirt, dress trousers in burgundy, rolled up sleeves, rolled socks. 

His eyes. They were almost luminescent. Grey, bright, a kind but firm stare. 

He looked gentle. 

He opened his lips. 

Words came out. Words he couldn’t recognise, then suddenly, the man stopped, fell quiet, just watched. 

“You are not Finnish.” 

English now. 

Julian shook his head. 

The man took a step further into the room, Julian retreated, squirming, pain reacting accordingly, the man stopped, looked. Made a gesture with his head, apologising, indicating thoughtfulness, carefulness. 

Not unlike animals, they watched each other. 

Steady. 

“Do not move. You are hurt.” 

He took another step. This time, Julian did not move but he kept cautious. 

What was it for? 

Metal clinking on porcelain on the tray - a spoon on a plate, a teacup, a smell. Familiar. Food. Water. 

He was thirsty, he needed a drink. 

“Don’t move,” the man repeated, taking another step, and another. 

He reached a bedside table. Put the tray down. 

Soup. Bread, hot bread, butter, milk, a tall glass of water. 

The man’s hands looked hardened, almost a different colour to his arms and his face, he shifted his body and sat down on the side of the bed, reaching out for the bowl and spoon. 

Julian wanted to protest but didn’t. The food was too inviting, he longed for it, longed for the warmth, the salt and the thickness. 

The spoon carefully scooped up a healthy amount, the same hand, the same rough fingers lifted and moved it towards his mouth. 

The first taste was sickening. But it was warm, and salt, and thick. 

Second taste was better. He could swallow. 

In silence, the motion continued. 

He couldn’t look into the eyes. They were too cold. Like outside, he was afraid they would swallow him up. So he didn’t. He continued with the spoon, the motion, the taste, the repetition of bliss until it was too much. 

A bite of bread. A glass of milk, cold and sweet, the hands so close to his face one finger brushed against the side of his mouth when he gulped it down, fresh, straight. 

When he was done, he wanted to throw up. 

The man stood up. A hand on his forehead, feeling his temperature. 

“Sleep, Doctor. You need it.” 

The tray stayed at the bedside as the man left the room, closing the door carefully behind him. 

Julian was already asleep. 

  
  


15.42

  
  


He could feel himself being lifted. A smooth transaction, from the bed, into the air, skin against soft cotton and warmth, air, gravity suddenly pulling him down. 

When he opened his eyes he saw the pattern of a shirt and pink, pale skin. The man carried him through the doorway, through a small corridor, into another room, vinyl carpet and walls - a bathtub. 

“I am going to undress you.” 

He was already dressed down to an undershirt and boxers, and barely reacted upon losing it all. 

Kneeling down, the man unwrapped the cloth around his legs. 

Bruises. Blisters. 

Gentle. Touch, so gentle and so careful. 

The water was warm, felt warmer than it probably was. 

Burning. 

His skint felt like it was evaporating, melting, merging into the liquid. 

It was bright red. 

The room was foggy, air was thick, his lungs were struggling and he coughed onto the floor, coughed hard and rough and coloured the vinyl red. 

The man wiped. Patient. Held his head. 

He bathed for half an hour. Afterwards, although he felt sluggish, he managed to stand up for himself and drain, wrapped up in a big, blue towel that felt coarse against his sensitive skin. 

With help, he made it back to bed. Still warm. Two covers, two blankets, he half laid down to examine himself. 

Swollen. He had blisters on his thighs, the front and back, calves and feet. Gesturing towards his bag, resting in one corner of the room, it was brought to him and he searched through it. 

Wraps, tourniquet, trauma bandages, surgical gloves. 

Atropine, syringe. 

Acetaminophen.

Shears. 

Medical tape. 

One tube. Water. The pills slid down, temporarily, they had to do. Infection might cause further trauma, he could live with scars but he’d rather avoid damaged cell tissue. 

The coughing was bad. Fever was bad. 

Weight on the side of the bed again. The man sat down. He looked at him. 

“What is it?” 

Julian met his stare. Unprepared, his voice coarse like it was grinding, hiding in his throat. 

“Antibiotics. Pain relief.” 

“Will they make it better?” 

He nodded. 

He hoped. 

Or did he? 

He slid down under the blankets, tried not to put any external pressure on the wounds, breathing through it, one breath at a time. 

“Tell me what to do.” 

The man looked concerned. 

Julian closed his eyes. 

“Sterile dressings.” 

One finger pointed at the bag. 

The man served, removing the packaging, the plastics, applying carefully. Five specific places, feet, calf, arms. 

“Wraps.” 

He followed. 

Careful, so careful. 

“Thank you.” 

Blankets over, tucked in again. The man took a deep breath, stepped back. 

It felt good, for the first time since waking up his muscles relaxed against soft cotton and a stuffed duvet. Pressure was relieved. 

He needed more rest. 

A closed door kept banging inside his head, something on the other side waiting to break free, a voice, a whisper -  _ you shouldn’t be here.  _

He quieted it. Embraced treatment. 

“I will be outside,” the man mumbled. 

  
  
  


19.12 

  
  


Dinner. Boiled potatoes and sausages, cut finely to ease. 

He ate for himself this time. Watched, by kind eyes. 

Potatoes taste grainy, sausages fatty, salty, more than welcome down his aching throat.

“You’re Swedish?” the kind man asked. 

Julian nodded. 

He knew he couldn’t fool him. There was no point. He had been so gentle so far, if he already knew, what would he do? 

“I did not know they were fighting so close here now.” 

“Övertorneå.” 

“You came from Ylitornio?”

He nodded. 

The man looked surprised. 

He must be far away. 

He must either be north or northwest, possibly outside of Rovaniemi. 

Surely not that far, but similar. North. Northwest. 

“How did you get this far?” 

He didn’t reply. Passage of food down his throat slowed down, wouldn’t swallow, wouldn’t leave. 

He was scared. But the man was so kind… 

When the plate was empty, the man took it from his lap. 

“I don’t believe in war,” he said. 

Then he left. 

  
  
  
  


01.03 

He woke up sweaty. Coughing. It was dark. It had been, since 5pm, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around it, reaching with blistered hands and fingers for a light. 

Click. 

There was music. From outside his room, a faint streak of light from under the door and smooth, pleasure filled rhythms. Slow jazz. 

He sat up. 

Frail legs over the bedside, cold feet against warm wood. Standing up was a battle he hadn’t prepared for yet - everything was spinning but he got it under control. 

Slow steps, one by one. 

He reached the door. 

What was he doing? 

The same hallway as before, leading to the bathroom, two closed doors, none from which the light came. 

On the other side, past the corridor - a kitchen. 

An open door. 

Old wallpaper in matte yellow, wooden cupboards, a sink, a fridge with lists and photos, a table with pin chairs - on one chair sat the man, with his back turned against the door, looking out the window. No plants, just one small light dangling from its cord against the glass, and the man, there, staring. 

On the table was the record player - old, portable, like a suitcase, but plastic. It must have been at least 60 years old. 1970’s perhaps, 1980’s. The record spun. The familiar, gravely voice sung. 

The dim, yellow light was warm and friendly but the man didn’t reflect so. He didn’t move, didn’t follow the music, only sat, quietly, peacefully. 

Still. Like a statue. 

Like stone. 

A speckle of dirt in a beautiful painting. 

An enigma, unbroken, right there in front of him. 

He watched. He was not sure what he’d come for. 

And the man didn’t notice. 

One by one the songs went by. 

Finally, Julian slipped up. He coughed. 

The man turned. 

He didn’t seem surprised, surprisingly enough. Their eyes met. 

They didn’t speak. 

The record reached its last spin, the last note, and the automatic arm lifted itself off the markings, moved back to the side to leave the room completely quiet. 

“Go back to bed,” the man said. “You need rest." 

Julian did as he was told. 


	2. 2

24.02.2043

  


08.01 

  


Morning again. This time, he was alone. 

He thought. 

He couldn’t hear anyone, anything, no creaking of wood and no footsteps. Quiet for an hour. 

Coughing, mucus, brown, blood. Pills. Again. 

Something was inside his skull, under the thick, under the bone, hammering to get out. A pulse. Strong, enough to make him blind, sweaty, hot. Fevery. 

He moved his arms under the blanket, tried to turn around. Limbs felt like liquid, heavy, bloated. 

Should he ease the pain? 

The bag was next to the bed. Reaching out, he could make it. 

Should he? 

Would he for someone else? 

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do it because he wasn’t there, he wasn’t out there. 

But did he really want to be? 

Cough. 

Squeezing the lungs. Tensing the muscles, relaxing. 

It hurt. 

A shot of pain rushed from the top of his head, his skull, down his face, throat, lungs, exploded - spread a streak through his lower body, tingling, tickling, hurting. 

And he deserved it. 

He deserved the pain. 

The bag was left on the floor, the bruises untouched, the coughing endlessly continuing like a bad streak. 

The ceiling was still white. Wooden. Timbered. 

He laid there, hours. 

His eyes traced the walls, the floor, the window, outside. 

The furniture, the colours, the patterns of wood. 

He focused on one thing. 

Imagining. 

One thing at a time.

The bookshelf. 

Books were classics, ones read centuries ago, ones written decades ago. Fishing books, flora and fauna, nature. Literature. Thrillers. Murder mysteries. Novels. Love stories. Fairy tales. 

Quite the collection. 

Green, red, brown, yellow backs. Some more worn than others. 

Inherited? 

Bought in a charity shop? 

Finnish titles. Pictures on the back, golden impregnated letters. 

He moved on to the wardrobe.

Closed. 

He imagined the inside - wooden, shelves on the side, one rack with hangers, neatly put together. Shirts, flannel shirts, striped shirts, checkered shirts. Trousers. A nice suit. Ties, not many but a few, nice shoes, dress shoes. Jackets. Boots. Working boots. 

He didn’t seem like the man to wear elaborate clothing yet he dressed well for a man his age. 

He was curious, he couldn’t help it. And he wanted to be. He wanted to find out where he was, who he was with. 

His house seemed different. Like it was inherited. 

Maybe it was. 

Then who’s? A friends? 

Family? 

More thinking, more stimulation, where was he? 

The kitchen. He’d seen it the other night. Small, decorated, pictures on the fridge - pictures of what, could he remember? 

Family? 

Postcards? 

A picture of italy, the kind of postcard every single family used to have, from their trip to Europe. But there were no pictures of family. Not that he could remember. 

No traces. Nothing. 

Just a man. 

Caring and kind, by himself. Not enlisted, not fighting as far as he was aware. Why? 

He’d left this morning. Where did he leave to? 

So many questions. He wished he could ask them. 

He would. He could. Eventually, when things were safer. But what made this not safe? He wasn’t quite sure. 

A stranger. A shadow. Someone without a face, without a past, just empty - someone who was an enemy, who shouldn’t be but now was. 

He didn’t seem dangerous. 

He just seemed like a man. Who wore nice trousers and made porridge and soup, helped him clean up his wounds. 

But why? 

It echoed within him. 

Why. Why did he do all of that when he wasn’t supposed to be here. 

Timbered walls, timbered ceilings. Timbered floors. Painted white, painted red. 

A painting. A ship on the sea. Clouds in the sky, sails set. 

Dreamlike. 

It didn’t belong there. 

He’d come full circle again. 

It exhausted him, the mere thought. 

Lying there exhausted him.

Imagining exhausted him,

Remembering exhausted him. 

And when he was too tired to think again, pain came. Pain swept him away and didn’t keep him awake, and all he could think of was fever and coughing and soreness and stillness and sleep. 

So he slept. 

  
  


16.58 

  


Three white pills in a palm, in a hand, in a fist before his face. A glass of water. 

The man nodded at him to take them, encouraging. 

“Your fever is still bad.” 

“What are they?” 

“Ibuprofen. For the inflammation.” 

He looked. Took. Swallowed. 

“Have you medicated?” 

Julian shook his head. 

He didn’t want to continue. 

He didn’t have to. 

The man didn’t leave the room this time, he left the bedside but sat down on a chair, in the corner, by the window. 

Julian was surprised. He looked. It woke a reaction. 

  


“Do you want me to leave?” 

  


“No,” he finally responded. 

  


They sat in silence again. He wanted to break it, he had so much to ask but he wasn’t sure how, he couldn’t start, didn’t know where. 

  


Cough. Brown, again. 

Tissue. 

“What’s your name?” 

Blue stare. 

  


“Garak. Elim Garak.” 

“Garak.” 

“Just Garak.” 

  


Pause. Julian had a drink of water, charged up. 

  


“Where did you go? Today, this morning.” 

  


“The shop. My shop.” 

“You have a shop.” 

“I’m a…” 

reaching for the word, finding it, 

“... tailor.” 

  


“You sow?” 

  


A nod. 

  


“And you take care of soldiers.” 

  


The hint of a smile. 

  


“You’re my first, Doctor.” 

  


“Julian.” 

  


“Doctor Julian.” 

  


“Bashir, Doctor Bashir, or just Julian.” 

  


“Julian. Since you are the patient.” 

  


They both smiled now. 

Strange. 

The concept of this, them two, smiling, without knowing each other. 

Pause again, and Julian wanted to ask something but he wasn’t sure how to put it and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear. 

Should he wait? 

No. He should rest his mind, get his answers. 

  


“You said I’m safe. Earlier.” 

  


“Yesterday. You are safe. No one passes by here.” 

  


“No one?” 

  


Was that a good or bad thing? 

It did make him feel better. 

  


“When you are better, I can take you back.” 

  


Deep breath. 

Back could mean a lot of things. To the borders? 

No, he couldn’t. 

He was here because he couldn’t. 

But he couldn’t continue further into the country and he couldn’t go back to his own, not without problem. 

Could he start anew? 

  


“Okay.” 

  


The conversation ebbed out. 

He knew there were more things he should ask, more things that followed but he was too tired and the man didn’t seem to have anything else he needed to say. So he sat, in silence, looked out the window. 

And Julian looked at his hands, the walls, the ceiling. 

The man. 

Garak. Just Garak. 

“Would you like to be alone?” 

Julian shook his head. 

He stayed. Turned the lights on when the sun went down, brought a blanket, brought a book. 

Julians mind drifted, the pain killers did their job, he felt calmer, cooler, still coughing and fighting his acid reflux but it was better.

It felt better. 

He was given dinner, and they ate together, in silence. 

Afterwards he was given a cup of hot coffee, and Garak moved over to his bed, again. 

“Can I swap your…” 

He pointed towards his hands, legs. 

A nod. 

Putting the duvet and blankets aside, the cold air against his body felt refreshing. 

Hardened, coarse hands were careful as they traced the wrappings, untying, unraveling. 

They were tailors hands, he thought. 

The blisters looked better. Not as red, not infected, none had burst. 

Touch. 

He hadn’t felt it for so long. Goosebumps from the cold, or from the touch he wasn’t sure. 

The hands were warm. Warmer than he thought. 

“Is it painful?” 

The man asked. 

He shook his head again. 

“Should I swap the dressings?” 

Julian nodded. 

Briefly, Garak left. He came back with two carton packages, titles in another language, piles of neatly packed squares inside. 

He must’ve bought them earlier. 

One by one, they got replaced. 

Steady. There was something so familiar in his movements. 

  


“Have you done this before?” 

  


Garak nodded. 

  


“It’s cold. I’ve seen hypothermia, frostbite, I know them.” 

  


He spoke of them like old friends. 

Once Julians body was covered he pulled the blankets so far up he almost drowned in the comfort, but his back hurt, and an anxious heartbeat reminded him of his standstill.

He was trapped. 

Safe, freed, but trapped in this bed. 

  


“You shouldn’t be walking.” 

  


“I haven’t been.” 

  


The glance he was given was almost a scolding, like a parent, lecturing their child. 

  


“Sleep.” 

  


“Are you leaving?” 

  


The man nodded. 

He picked up the empty packaging, the old wraps, their faint smell hanging in the air. 

Julian’s body was pounding, but it was slow, and numb. 

And he was a patient. 

He should do as he was told, this time. With anyone else, he wouldn’t, in any other place, he would follow his own voice. 

But not here. 

Not now. 

  


02.31 

  


He woke. 

Darkness. 

Sweat. 

Fever. 

Fever dreams. 

Loud noises, banging, banging banging banging banging 

The door was shot open, the man came in, in a hurry. 

Julian still had his mouth open, it was making noises, it was screaming - or it had been, and now it was just there, coarse, hoarse, painful and empty. 

Realising that the bed was sticky with body fluids he felt ashamed but couldn’t fathom it. 

His mind was melting. 

Head was pounding.

  


“What’s wrong?” 

  


He couldn’t reply, he was out of breath, he turned, sat up, sight muddy and undershirt wet. 

Touch. 

Again. 

His chest, the man’s chest, close to his head - he could hear his heartbeat, feel his warmth radiating. 

  


“Listen.” 

  


He did. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

Sweat ran like water, arms hurt, legs hurt, lungs hurt. 

Coughing, over the man’s skin, but he didn’t react to it, he reached out - wrapped an arm around his shoulder. 

“Listen.” 

Beat. 

His heartbeats were steady. 

His head fell, onto the bare chest, onto the skin, the flesh. 

Why wouldn’t his head stop pounding? 

Beat. 

He must stink. He must be disgusting, wailing into the night like a wolf, like its prey. His skin was sticky next to the other. 

Breathe. 

Breathe. 

“Breathe.” 

He made a noise, he wasn’t quite sure what kind. 

He wanted to bite. For some reason, he wanted to bite something, or tear something, cause pain to something that wasn’t just him.

Noises.

Beat. 

Ragged breathing turned slower. 

Wheezing. Coughing. 

Slower. 

Beat. 

Slower. 

His own heartbeats, slower. Pulse, slower. 

Still sweaty, still disgusting. 

Silence now, just breaths. Deafening silence. 

Less panting, softer, less hard, fragile. 

“You are safe.” 

Anxiety rush, heart felt like stopping. It didn’t. It was slower, he focused on that, focused on nice and slow. 

Even though he was trapped in a forceful embrace with clumsy limbs and fabrics between them he didn’t feel trapped, he felt sheltered, 

Safe, he thought, safe, safe, safe. 

There was no noise now. 

Just a heartbeat. 

Not two, one. Together. 

Beat, he repeated in his head for every time. 

Beat, one minute. 

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Four minutes.

Five minutes.

Six minutes.

Seven minutes. 

Fiftynine, fiftyeight, fiftyseven, fiftysix, fiftyfive, fiftyfour, fiftythree, fiftytwo, fiftyone, fourty. 

Eight minutes. 

They sat in their forceful embrace for ten minutes. They were both counting. 

The man never let go, even when Julian squirmed. 

After twelve, he retreated, but he sat on the side of the bed like before and just watched in silence. Julian fell back, to the side, exhausted. 

He felt his breath being watched, his posture, his pulse. 

One minute.

Two minutes. 

Garak sat silent by his side. 

Three minutes.

Four minutes. 

He didn’t think of anything. He’d never not thought of anything before, but now he did. 

Like his brain was tired of thinking. Like it had gone overload, and was left with nothing. 

In. Out. In out. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

Five minutes. 

Six minutes. 

Seven minutes. 

Somewhere around thirteen he stopped counting. 

Everything around seemed dead. A dead landscape. 

Not a creak. 

Not a noise. 

Blocks over his ears. 

It must have been an hour. 

He wasn’t asleep again, but he was at rest, in a limbo. 

And Garak was still at his side, monitoring. 

He didn’t lose control for another four hours, when the sun came up. Only then would his eyes do him a favour and close, let him slip away, forgetting about the body now moved to the chair in the corner, sitting there, sleeping, and forgetting about monitoring breath and heartbeat and keeping the noise quiet. 

Four hours later. 

Garak stayed in the corner, asleep, sitting. 

They rest together, in silence, as the sun stood high.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed this turned out to be a slow burn. It be like that sometimes. 
> 
> Also, [here is my tumblr.](http://www.starchtrek.tumblr.com)

25.02.2043

14.24 

  
  


They didn’t talk about it. 

At midday, Garak disappeared for an hour and came back with two bags full of food, clothes, and - to Julian’s great surprise - two books. 

The fabrics were thrown onto his bed as he sat up, glancing over them briefly. Long sleeved t-shirts, a fleece, trousers in cotton and two packs of briefs and socks. Simple, soft. 

“You are smaller than me,” he noted. “My clothes won’t do.” 

Julian thanked him. 

Curiously, he looked at the books. The man noted. 

“It was the only two titles they had in English.” 

Romance novels. Worn down, second hand titles. Yellow pages with muddled ink, stains from coffee on the sides. Well read. 

He thanked him again. 

Pills. Water. Swallow. 

“Do you need to work?” 

Garak shook his head. 

“I put a sign on the door. I will stay home with you until you get better, Doctor.” 

“I’ll be fine --” 

“I will stay at home with you, Doctor.” 

No fighting it. 

He could tell he would lose. 

No point. 

It was a kind of relief. 

  
  


“I should have a bath.” 

  
  


Embalmed in layers in sweat, from before. He must stink. 

Garak nodded, came close, offered an arm. 

He moved to the side of the bed, put his legs down. The man reached out. 

  
  


“You shouldn’t walk.” 

  
  


He was right. He didn’t want his feet to get permanent damage from the frostbite. 

He was swept up. Garak knelt down, put a hand on his back, one under his legs, and lifted. 

He had to cling on, arm over his shoulder, unstable, he wasn’t expecting this, he was expecting an arm or a helping hand --

The man stood up. Walked, like it was nothing. 

Carried him like a child. 

He felt like one. 

His neck, so close. 

His cheek.

A scent. Aftershave? 

Walk, through the corridors. They reached the bathroom, Garak gently put him down on the toilet, was left standing, hovering, awkwardly. 

  
  


“Do you need --” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

  
  


He turned to put the taps on, Julian quickly got rid of his shirt and started to peel off the dressings one by one, then his socks, then his underwear. 

Skin was red again, heat marks.

The taps ran. White metal felt cold, so was the floor, Garak reached out to offer an arm as he transferred from the seat into the tub, water still running. 

Not painful this time. Warm, comforting. 

Once he was in, the other man left. 

Julian let his head fall back, resting on the short side of the tub. Muscle by muscle, less and less tension.

Steam. 

No coughing this time. 

Footsteps outside, scattered. The frequent buzz from the boiler. 

Was he close? 

He couldn’t tell. 

The water was so soft, silky almost, comforting. 

No pressure on his back. Temperature going down. 

If was a relief he desperately needed. 

Half an hour. 

He scrubbed his body with soap, his hair, avoided his wounds and let the water do the rest - it was fresh and sweet and he drew a deep breath to remember the smell, he wanted to remember feeling this way, even though his stomach was turning and his feet were still sore. 

Drain. 

Washing off. 

Standing up, careful over the edge, grabbing a towel off a hook. 

Garak must have been close, hearing him finish, he knocked on the door carefully before entering, offering just an arm to make it all the way back to the bedroom. 

The room felt smaller. 

He didn’t want to be there, but he knew no other place to go. 

Where was Garak staying? 

Was there another bedroom? 

A sofa? 

He suddenly felt guilty. 

The house was small, he hadn’t seen it all. 

New boxers, socks, fresh out of the packaging. A long sleeved cotton shirt, trousers, soft like pajama bottoms. 

He felt like a child. 

Back into bed, back under the covers. 

Recover. 

Rest. 

Not sleep, not yet, the fever was down he was feeling restless. 

Garak left, Julian picked up the book from the bedside table. The top title, a yellow cover with black and white letters, Times font, a woman and a man staring deep into each others eyes. 

Front page. 

_ To Anna.  _

_ To all of those who dream.  _

He turned the page and started to read. 

  
  


18.42 

  
  


He wondered if they’d ever met outside of these circumstances, if they would be friends. 

He would’ve liked to think so. 

Garak was quiet but present, curious, certainly, but calm and calculated. 

He seemed lonely. 

He must have seen things. Been through things. 

And now it was just him, he thought. 

But not really. 

It wasn’t just him. 

Julian was there now. 

  
  


20.32 

  
  


“Have you ever been to war?” 

  
  


Pause. 

  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


Pause. 

  
  


“Do you know anyone…” 

  
  


He couldn’t finish. 

  
  


“Many.” 

  
  


“People who are fighting now?” 

  
  


A nod. 

Pause. 

  
  


“It is lonelier than I imagined.” 

  
  


“A lot of things aren’t like you imagine them.” 

  
  


“You don’t know, though, anything, really --” 

  
  


“No.” 

  
  


“I just wish --” 

  
  


“Everything was different?” 

  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


Pause. 

  
  


“Even when you are at peace they still come to get you.” 

  
  


“Here it is like 1939. Again. The winter wars, they never ended.” 

  
  


Pause. 

Plates. Cutlery, metals against porcelain. 

Peeling skin off potatoes, coating them in butter. 

Chew. 

Swallow.

Silence.

  
  


“How is the book?” 

  
  


“It’s good.” 

  
  


Smile. 

  
  


“Is it?” 

  
  


“Yes, it’s… Different.” 

  
  


“Doctor, you can tell me if it’s not any good.” 

  
  


Pause. 

  
  


“I don’t read that much.” 

  
  


“You should. It’s educating.” 

  
  


“I went to medical school.” 

  
  


A shared smile. 

  
  


“You might learn other things.” 

  
  
  


Chew. Swallow. 

Silence. 

  
  
  


“How come you live out here?” 

  
  


Shrug. 

  
  


“It’s quiet. I have my shop, I don’t need many other things.” 

  
  


“Does it not get lonely?” 

  
  


“Sometimes.” 

  
  


Pause. 

  
  


“I prefer quiet too.” 

  
  


“Good. You are comfortable then.” 

  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


Pause, then, continuing, “I haven’t even said --” 

  
  


“You don’t have to, Doctor.” 

  
  


“But I want to.” 

  
  


“I only want you to get better --” 

  
  


“Thank you.” 

  
  


“It’s nothing.” 

  
  


“I mean it, thank you. I’m alive, thanks to you.” 

  
  


“And now you will save someone else’s life. That’s all that matters.” 

  
  
  


That’s all that matters. 

Pause. 

The food felt sickening now. 

He didn’t finish it. 

  
  


Garak took his plate and left. 

  
  
  


00.01

  
  


Night made him uncomfortable now. He was sick of the smell of the room, sick of the same view, sick of himself, of his mind. 

It ran non-stop. 

He moved, again, restlessly. 

He knew he shouldn’t stand. He shouldn’t be on his feet but they were healing, he would have to at some point and he hated the thought of being bed bound for this long time. So he turned, his legs over the bedside. 

A hand on the table. 

Flexed. Slowly, stand. 

Legs shaking. 

He took one step. 

His toes hurt, the sole hurt. 

One more. 

One more. 

One at a time. 

To the window. 

It was pitch black outside. The only source of light was a measly glow from the front door by the side. 

Snow. 

Piles, feathers from the sky. 

Windy. The glass rattled in front of him. 

He could see a small bath between the layers of snow, leading into an endless darkness with crowning trees swaying in the wind. Pines. Drenched in white, like paint. 

Nothing. 

There was nothing out there. 

He wanted to smell it, the fresh air, he reaches for the small metal screws keeping the window closed. Pinched his fingers - it hurt, but then, everything did. 

Bottom ones. Top ones. 

Push. 

It flew open with force. The wind caught it, swung it back against him but he caught it with his hand and held it open. 

Freezing cold. 

He loved its scent. Dry, frozen, piney air, so cold it tickled his nose. 

Another deep breath. 

It was so calm and peaceful outside he almost wanted out. 

Almost. 

Cough. 

It would be there for him, when he needed it. 

He hadn’t been this far up north before. 

He didn’t think it would be like this. 

Different. 

The people here were different. They had different minds, separated, more alive. That’s what he’d first thought when he came. 

Everything changed once he was out here. 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

Home, even. 

Away. 

He hadn’t seen his parents in so long. 

Were they still proud of him? 

He could barely remember their faces. 

Something moved among the trees. He looked, squinted, tried to see what it was. 

An animal? 

A moose? 

Cracking twigs, crunching snow, he could see a silhouette but he couldn’t see what it was. Then it was gone, scared, moving away from him. 

Silence again. 

One last deep breath. 

He closed the window. 

He should go back to bed. 

He didn’t. 

Moving towards the door, the floorboards creaked underneath, had to be careful, had to be quiet. 

Door swung open, no sound. Hallway dark, black, no lights anywhere, no sounds. 

The door to the kitchen was closed, as was the bathroom. There were three others including the front door, two foreign ones. One open - living room. 

Careful steps. 

It was dark. 

One step, two steps. 

He could barely see anything. Eyes getting used to it, silhouettes, outlines of furniture. Two bookshelves, an armchair, tv-bench, tv - old, plants on the windowsill. Their leafs throwing shadows across the floor where it wasn’t already pitch black. 

A sofa. 

On it, the man. A blanket over his body, pulled all the way up to his head, locks of hair falling down over his face, covering. Eyes closed. 

Julian took a few careful steps, entering. 

Rug, soft on his feet. Light painted timbered walls, like the bedroom. He couldn’t see the shade. 

One more step. 

In the bookshelf, a photo. The man. Another man next to him, tall, slender, military jacket. Smiling, both of them. Close. The man, Garak, with an arm around the others’ waist. 

So he was enlisted once. 

More titles, newer covers, black blue green spines, hardbacks and paperbacks. He stroke one finger against them, feeling varying textures. 

A lamp in the corner. The armchair, hard cotton, green. A trunk next to it. Probably more books inside. It seemed to be a recurring theme. 

Hanging on the wall next to the TV was a bag - garment bag, long, zipper in the middle. 

A suit? A hanger keeping it up on the wall. Next to it, a small work station. 

Curious, he came closer. Hand on the fabric. Reaching for the zipper, he wanted to see. 

Careful, pulling it down. Turning, seeing if the man reacted - he didn’t, he was still, head to the side, chest moving up and down in slow patterns.

Down. Further down. 

White. Or light, at least. A dress. 

Thick silk, doubled up, v-neck, possibly the kind that went off the shoulders but he couldn’t quite see, delicate fabric trailing all the way down to the end of the folder. 

Reaching out, he touched.

Soft. Each thread marking his fingertips. Smooth, even, following his hand down. Thicker further down, was there a train under there? 

Probably. 

He wanted to see more. 

He shouldn’t. But it was beautiful, so delicate, so soft. 

Movement. In the corner of his eye he could see the man move, turn over, and he froze, instantly, holding his breath. 

One. 

Two. 

Silence, again. His hand was still on the fabric, heart beating, head spinning. 

Ten more seconds. 

No movement. 

Silhouette still. 

Now facing the room, but still, quiet. 

He dared to let go of his breath, quietly, letting his hand fall away from the smooth garment. Careful, zipping it up. 

He should go back to bed. 

Step, quiet. Rug making it easier. He crossed in front of the sofa, throwing a glance at the body, resting peacefully. 

Stopping. 

He shouldn’t. 

Adrenaline peaking, he didn’t feel ill, didn’t think about hurting for once, just looking, moving in closer. 

He stood. Watched. 

The man’s mouth was slightly open, making his breaths slightly audible, but they were deep and calm. Eyes shut close, face relaxed. 

He looked different. 

Honest. 

Not that he hadn’t been, so far. From what he knew. 

What did he know? 

Nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

It didn't bother him. 

Strange. 

The blanket slid down his over shoulder now that he was lying on his side. 

Julian knelt down.

He shouldn’t. 

Pulse hammering. 

He watched him. 

Smooth skin. Dark hair. 

Peaceful. 

There he was, open and honest. 

His rescue. 

The man he had to thank for keeping him alive. 

Nose wrinkling in his sleep, drawing a deeper breath. A sound. 

He didn’t open his eyes. 

Wrinkle again. 

He looked human. 

Suddenly, so human. 

Heartbeat. 

Once second.

Two seconds.

Stood up, step back. Carefully backtracking to the doorway, leaving the sleeping man behind, to his dreams, whatever they were. 

Safe, he hoped. He hoped he had nothing to be scared of. 

But he wasn’t sure. With a background like his, he probably did. 

Tracing his own steps back to his room, almost falling into his bed. The bed, not his. But it did feel like it belonged to him now. 

Under the covers, soft and warm. 

The room still smelling like pine trees and frost. 

The lamp on the nightstand on. 

He picked up the same book he’d opened before, found the page which he’d marked with his right thumb, folding the corner. 

He continued to read until the sun started to come up before he slowly trailed off into an easy slumber, the man’s sleeping face sill etched on his mind. 

  
  
  


00.48 

  
  


He is awake. 

Felt his presence when he’d knelt down by the side of the sofa. Felt his body radiating warmth. 

He shouldn’t have been up. He shouldn’t be walking around. 

But he had been. 

He turns around, faces the ceiling. 

Julian Bashir. 

Doctor. 

Found in the snow. Lonely. 

By himself. 

Away from the borders. 

Now he is here, in his house. 

In his bed. 

By his sofa, looking at him. 

He’d looked at the wedding dress. 

Thinking until the morning hours. 

He won’t sleep. 

He’ll only think. Of the doctor, his midnight venture 

and his body, by his side. 


	4. 4

26.02.2043

  
  


13.15 

  
  


Garak helped him up on his feet after much persuasion from Julian’s side. Putting his feet on the warm wooden floor felt euphoric. 

Supporting arm. 

Hand on shoulder. 

Transferring weight, carefully.

Short walk, slow, steady, to the kitchen. 

It was cleaned up. 

He could see it better now, with the light on. 

Pin chair by pin table.

He sat down. 

Slightly uncomfortable but he embraced it. Almost wanted it to be. 

Screamed for discomfort after soft and cozy duvet. 

Change. 

He was handed a meal. A warm, fresh, straight out of the oven meal.

Plate with oily chicken, herbs, a slice of lemon. Rice. Sauce. Vegetables - carrots, onions. He could barely wait for the other man to sit down before he started to devour the meat, bury his teeth into its freshness and warmth. 

“Hungry?” 

Garak seemed amused. 

He nodded. Returned the smile. 

They ate mostly in silence. 

Complimenting his cooking, thanking modestly. 

It was delicious. 

When they were finished, Garak picked up their plates and carried them over to the sink, dropping them into a bath of boiling hot water and foamy detergent. On his way back he stopped by one of the cupboards, picking out two cups and a small square box. He put them on the table, went to collect the thermos of coffee, and finally sat back to pour it. 

Julian glanced at the box. Reached out, touched it with his fingertips. 

The metal was uneven, coloured, green and blue. There was probably once tobacco in it, it looked like one of those boxes, ones his grandfather used to have. 

He remembered it. Smelling sweetly, forbidden to touch. 

“Open it.” 

Garak was still pouring, carefully. 

He didn’t look up, only encouraged. 

He followed the instructions. 

Nails under the sides, he snapped it open, slowly so it wouldn’t spill its content, whatever it was. 

Lid to the side. 

Inside. 

Playing cards. A perfectly placed deck with elaborate patterns on the back. White, red, golden. Swirls in black, a symbol in the middle, a pointy sword. 

  
  


“Do you know how to play  _ Gin Rummy _ ?” 

  
  


He’d played it with his father before. 

Ten cards, one by one. Matching pairs, point system. 

He was sure he’d remember 

It was surprising, but exciting. 

More exciting than the book. 

A nod. 

  
  


“Good. It’s been a while.” 

  
  


Garak took the box from his hands, lifted the deck from the inside and quickly parted it in two, holding a half in each hand. Then he started to shuffle. 

One time, split. 

Two times, split. 

Gathering the two parts into one, he mixed cards one by one on the table until there were two piles of ten, pushing one of the over to Julian’s side before putting down what was left in the middle of the table, turning the first card. 

Two of spades. 

  
  


Julian picked up his cards, started to organise them by number and colour. 

The other man smiled across the table, took a sip from his coffee cup. 

He seemed excited. 

  
  


“You start, Doctor.” 

  
  


Pick card. 

Ace of Spades. 

Swap, for an Eight of Diamonds. 

  
  


The other man picked it up. 

Put Queen of Hearts down. 

  
  


Beat. 

  
  


“Could I ask you a question, Doctor?” 

  
  


Pick a card. Four of clubs. He had five, and six - sequence. 

Nine of clubs down. 

  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


Beat. 

Five of diamonds down. 

  
  


“I don’t mean to be nosy.” 

  
  


He needed another Ace or the King of Diamonds to match his Queen and Knight. 

  
  


Beat. 

  
  


“I think you have a right to be.” 

  
  


Another smile playing on the other man’s lips. 

He seemed to be enjoying this. 

Which part? 

The coffee, the cards?

The conversation? 

  
  


Ten of Diamonds. 

Perfect. 

Swap. 

Should he count the Aces as deadwood and finish, or wait for another one? 

He waited. 

Two of spades down. 

Garak picked it up. 

  
  


“How come I found you so far away from the borders?” 

  
  


Beat. 

He should have guessed. 

There would be questions eventually, he just hadn’t thought that far. 

He had been so… Nice. 

Reserved, to himself, he hadn’t expected it, but he should have. 

Of course he should have. 

What to reply. 

He couldn’t. 

He couldn’t think it, let alone say it, out loud. 

Game. 

Focus. 

Coward. 

Continuing in silence, he held his breath. 

Garak folded. Cards on the table. Three perfect pairs - Queens, Eights, Deuces. 

  
  


“Gin.” 

  
  


Julian looked up. Met icy blues, staring, tearing him open, confronting his silence. 

  
  


“Four,” he replied, flip side up. 

  
  


“Twentyfour then.” 

  
  


His turn. He gathered the cards, adjusted the pile in his hands and split it in two as he started to shuffle it. 

Garak grabbed a pencil and paper on the side, made a note under his name. 

  1. Nice, big numbers. 

Pencil down.

He watched. 

  
  


“We were being chased out.” 

Keeping his focus on the deck. Shuffle, split. Shuffle split. 

  
  


“I didn’t know where to go. I just ran.” 

  
  


Liar. 

Silence from the other side. 

Assemble the deck, putting cards in two piles, one by one. 

  
  


“I’m sorry.” 

  
  


Finally. 

  
  


“It’s okay. ” 

  
  


They picked up their cards again, Garak turned the first one in the pile. 

Picked it up, put another down. 

  
  


Julian was having a hard time concentrating. 

  
  
  


“When they came, from Russia… No one was prepared.” 

Garak. 

Julian nodded. 

He had no idea what it must have been like. 

  
  


No one had seen it for so long. 

  
  


“A lot of people were angry. A lot of people I served with,” he said, asking for a reaction. 

There was none. 

Blank. 

He picked up a card that was left flip side up, Six of Clubs. Put it next to his Five. Nine of Hearts down. 

  
  


“I never understood how.” 

  
  


Garak watched his motions, he could tell. Scanning him. Analyzing his behaviour, his movements, any indication he might make. What was he trying to find out? 

He didn’t feel uncomfortable. 

He understood. 

  
  


“More than anything, when I came here… It’s pointless.” 

  
  


Finally, the other man replied. 

  
  


“Everything has a point.” 

  
  


“Even this?” 

  
  


Five in deadwood. 

He turned his cards. 

Folded. 

Garak blinked.

Looked. 

Then, again, smiled. 

He looked at Julian, suddenly radiating that enticing warmth again. 

Opening. 

He looked… Weak, suddenly. 

Maybe not weak. 

Maybe just approachable. 

Open. 

Accepting, even. 

Or was that his wish? 

  
  


“Yes. Even this.” 

  
  


Garak collected the cards from the table and gathered them all in his hands. 

He didn’t look at Julian again. 

He felt guilty. 

But he continued to play the game. 

  
  
  


17.04

  
  


Their competition continued and started over, twice, three times before Julian’s bones ached. After Garak’s second victory he was offered a helping hand back to bed. 

He took it. 

The fever was back. 

Pills. 

Water. 

Swallow. 

Again. 

He knew the routine so well it required no brain power. 

Back on the mattress, head on the pillow, relaxed. 

Him and his thoughts. 

They ached almost as much as his muscles. 

  
  


“I’ll come with dinner. Rest now.” 

  
  


The man left. 

Julian watched his fuzzy silhouette as it disappeared through the doorway. 

He remembered the picture, he’d seen it, the man, his smile, the jacket, the equipment. 

He had been in the fields. 

He knew. 

Never once a hint to it. 

Just his words, just an answer to his question. 

Maybe he didn’t want to explain it. 

  
  


Cough. Double, chesty, again. 

Maybe he’d been up too soon. Maybe this wasn’t good after all. 

  
  


As much as he wanted to slip away and give his body a rest, it wouldn’t let him - he could feel the cold again, feel its restless tickle. 

He remembered outside, walking for hours, slowly losing control of his feet, feeling them against the crunching snow, seeing nothing but darkness. Trees. 

He didn’t know where he was, he was just running. 

Away. 

He never stopped. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever run that far before. 

Something would move on his side, he wouldn’t look. 

He wasn’t scared. Not of the woods, not of the weather. 

Just of what he’d left behind. 

Heartbeats would be quick then slow, then quiet for minutes - they wouldn’t leave a single trace then come back hammering inside his chest like it was about to explode. 

A light in front of him. 

Imaginary, he was sure. 

Still, he’d continued.

People would die every year during the winter, his mum had once told him of drunken men falling asleep in the snow - they’d lie there all night, all systems shut down, and in the morning they’d be found frozen to the core, asleep for hours. 

Dead.

They’d never feel a thing. 

He’d felt like one of them, stumbling about in the darkness, no sense of direction, just walking, walking, never turning around. 

At some point he must have blacked out. 

Then he’d woken up. 

In this house. 

In this room. 

It was a miracle he hadn’t died. 

A miracle in the shape of a man. 

  
  
  


19.56 

  
  


At some point he must have fallen asleep. 

He woke up to a plate of cold potatoes, parsnips, meat and gravy, didn’t care about heating it up, he just ate it as it was. It had been put on the nightstand, and Garak was nowhere to be seen. 

Inhaling the food, like oxygen. 

Their conversation from before came back into his head. 

He could think clearer now, wasn’t clouded by aching bones or fevered dreams. 

He’d lied. 

He felt like he was still running. There was still something behind him, chasing him further into the forest but he wasn’t sure what it was, just a shadow, a pit of darkness, swallowing him up. 

Do something, then. 

Do something about it. 

You’re safe. You’ve heard that enough - believe it now. 

He was safe. 

Why hadn’t he told the man the truth? 

On the chair in the corner was a jumper, grey and blue, knitted in woolen yarn. 

Do something. 

Careful, swung legs over. 

Balance. 

Stand. 

A few steps over to the chair, put fingertips on the material, tickly, warm. 

He pulled it over this head. 

The place was colder. 

It must be getting ever colder outside. 

-20? 

-25? Even worse? 

He took a few steps towards the door, listened for sound outside. 

Nothing. 

Was the man sleeping? 

This early? 

Had he left? 

Where would he go?

A few steps, corridor, to the bathroom. It wasn’t locked. 

He went quickly, sat down, washed his hands afterwards then made his way out in the hallway again. 

The door to the living room was open. 

He shouldn’t. 

But then again, he didn’t want to be alone. 

Careful steps. 

Closer. 

Knocked on the door frame. 

Looked in. 

Garak was there. 

Was this a dream? How had he got there so quickly? 

It wasn't, he was there, now. In the room. With him. No explanation, no thinking, just acting irrationally. 

The man was sitting on the sofa, a cup of tea in his hand, a book on the side, a notebook, open, sketches of models in clothing. 

His clothing. 

He looked up.

Julian met his gaze. 

Frozen. 

What was he supposed to say? 

  
  


“Doctor.” 

  
  


“I wanted to speak to you.” 

  
  


Eyes. Watching. Looking at him, up and down. 

After a second he moved, making space in the sofa - inviting him to sit down but somehow it didn’t seem reasonable. 

He took a few steps in, hovering, standing in a position not too close but not too far from the other. 

Silence. 

Beat. 

How was he supposed to start? 

  
  


“You asked me earlier…” 

  
  


Raised eyebrow. 

Curious now, he could tell. 

Why was he there? 

This was stupid. 

  
  


“I ran.” 

  
  


Beat. 

Silence. 

He didn’t make sense. 

  
  


“I’m not quite sure I understand.” 

  
  


Quick, “When I came here I ran. From my camp, I didn’t — we weren’t —“ 

  
  


Silence again. 

  
  


How could he call himself human? 

  
  


“I was afraid. I helped two men, cleaned out their wounds but none of them made it they both…” 

  
  


Garak raised his hand. 

He understood. 

Deep breath. 

  
  


“I have never felt like this before.” 

  
  


“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.” 

  
  


“I want to.” 

  
  


Still frozen, still thinking, thoughts swirling like liquid.

Think clearer. 

  
  


“I said I ran, which is true, but I was running because I couldn’t do it anymore. I was scared and I couldn’t help people —“ 

  
  


Stop, gathering himself, again, slower, pause. 

  
  


“I wasn’t worth saving.” 

  
  
  


Was that it? 

  
  


It seemed to be. 

He wanted to continue but couldn’t think of anything else to say, and Garak was just sitting there, still, watching his mouth go dry explaining. 

Hover. 

No more. 

This was it. 

  
  


“Are you done?” 

  
  


Taken aback. 

Nod. 

  
  


“Good.” 

  
  


Garak stood up, one step closer to him. 

  
  


His presence, firm, almost intimidating. 

He looked taller. Felt taller. 

Bigger. Broader. Fuller, somehow. 

  
  


“Every life is worth saving. Especially now - especially here. Even yours.” 

  
  


Heartbeat. 

One.

Two.

Three.

  
  


He shook his head.

  
  


Couldn’t answer. 

  
  


Throat burning, chest aching. 

  
  


“You’re not the first, and not the last. You don’t have to explain yourself, not to me, I know nothing of your circumstances.” 

  
  


”You have a right to know.” 

  
  


“Thank you for telling me. But I didn’t need to know.” 

  
  


“I can’t lie to you.” 

  
  


This sparked a reaction. 

He wasn’t quite sure why he felt so strongly about it but the need was there, the need to be honest, to this one person who’d given him a second chance, for whatever it was worth. 

The other man’s face, his body, lit up with intent, gears turning, looking, reading, trying to break him. It almost did. 

  
  


“Why? I’m the enemy.” 

  
  


“You’re not.” 

  
  


“I could have been. Just as easily.” 

  
  


“Not you.” 

  
  


Julian shook his head. 

Determined. 

He was sure about this. This one thing. 

  
  


“You can’t be my enemy.” 

  
  


Icy blues. Staring. Right through him, intimidating. 

Was he trying to scare him off? 

He didn’t want it to work, if that was the case. 

  
  


“Maybe not.” 

  
  


Sincere. 

Then;

  
  


“You can’t go back?” 

  
  


“No.” 

  
  


Quick. The thought itself scared him so much he had to close his eyes, take a second. 

  
  


“I can’t -- I don’t want to --” 

  
  


“What about home?” 

  
  


“How?”

  
  


“We’ll find a way.” 

  
  


“There’s nothing there for me anymore.” 

  
  


“No family?” 

  
  


Family. 

No. 

Yes. 

Would they still take him home? 

Would they treat him the same? 

He wasn’t sure. 

It felt like someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed it inside his chest. 

Hard.

Ruthlessly. 

  
  


“I don’t know.” 

  
  


“You don’t have to think about it yet. You’re still recovering.” 

  
  


But he was thinking about it. And it pulled his breath, muddled his vision. 

  
  


Temples heavy again, breath frail. 

Heart pounding. 

Adrenaline pumping. 

  
  


He needed to be quiet. He would lose it, he couldn’t, uncomfortable - sharing was too much, not now, not here. 

He wasn’t ready. 

What was he thinking?

The other man took a step forward, reacting to his discomfort, reaching out -- 

A hand, on his arm. 

He couldn’t. 

Panic. 

Rising, a wave washing over him, tensing up. 

  
  


“Julian.” 

  
  


Julian. 

  
  


Focus. 

  
  


“Listen.” 

  
  


Focus. 

Now. 

The hand on his arm moved, the outline of the body in front of him came closer, less fuzzy, more sharp, there, present, now pressure on his neck. Fingers, holding it, holding him steady. 

Planting him to the ground. 

Keeping him up. 

  
  


“Breathe.” 

Breathe. 

  
  


He felt pathetic. 

Useless. 

Why had he come here? 

What was the point? 

  
  


Out of nowhere he could feel himself leaning forward, meeting the other man’s shoulder, forehead resting against cotton, skin and hard bone. 

Out of control. 

Spinning. 

  
  


Breathe. 

One.

Two.

Three.

They’d done this before. 

Not like this, now awake, not at this level of awareness, but still. It helped.

His presence calmed him. Even now. 

  
  
  


“You don’t have to go back.” 

  
  
  


Where else should he go? 

  
  
  


“Just focus for now.” 

  
  
  


He was trying. 

  
  


In front of him, patterns from the soft cotton shirt. Trousers. Socks. 

Floor. 

Grounded. 

Steady. 

He was steady. 

He could be. 

  
  


Garak’s chest rising and sinking. 

Up. 

Down. 

One.

Two. 

  
  


He dared lifting his head, regaining control, the hand slipped back between his shoulder blades. 

Face meeting the other man’s halfway up. 

Close. 

Almost forehead to forehead. 

  
  


“Breathe.” 

  
  


Muscles barely kept him steady, he needed to sit down. 

Spiraling. 

Helping arm, still holding him, they reached the floor. 

He held his arms around his legs. 

One. Two. 

A bit more distance now. 

Touch, still, slight. 

He had no idea of what was going on, but he felt safer now, out of the light, slowly making his way back. 

Mind running, but slower. 

Tiredness. 

Constant tiredness, always there.

He hated this. 

  
  


They sat silently next to each other on the floor, connecting only through the surfaced touch between palm and back. 

Physical connection. 

He was starved. 

  
  


Chest, up and down. 

Up. Down. 

  
  


“Any better?” 

  
  


He nodded. 

Garak could sense it. 

The lack of touch. 

  
  


“Lie down.” 

  
  


No questions, he did as he was told. 

Head on the rug. 

Hard.

Rough.

Silhouette disappearing. 

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. 

He counted. 

Listened to the footsteps, heading towards the kitchen. 

Something shaking. Clatter. Distant. 

More seconds, minute. Two. 

Footsteps again. 

He stared at the ceiling. 

Similar to the one in the bedroom. 

White. 

Different lamp. 

Different patterns. 

Still, white. Similar. 

Footsteps close now, clinking, liquid. 

A cup of tea placed next to his head, he closed his eyes. 

Garak sat down next to him. 

Hand on his arm. 

  
  


“Choose what you want to do.” 

  
  


Julian took a deep breath, followed the markings through the planks, covered by paint. Still there. 

  
  


Beat. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

  
  


“I’m not going back. I’ll go somewhere.

I just -- 

It doesn’t feel… Real, yet.” 

  
  


Garak was quiet. 

Sat in silence. 

Listened. 

Then; 

“Go on. Talk.” 

So he talked. 


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a wee bit behind.  
But then, so is Julian.

27.02.2043 

  
  


06.27 

  
  
  


They never went to bed. 

Conversation continued, and it was nice, it was good for them. 

For Julian. 

Time passing, endless drivel. 

  
  


Limbs were touching, arm against arm and leg against leg, the weak comfort they both had to offer each other. Backs against the sofa, feet flat on the floor. 

Connected. Next to each other. No need to look, just to know. 

To feel. 

Human connection. 

His surprise, something he never thought he’d miss. 

They parted around 6, Julian heading for the shower and a fresh set of clothes, Garak entering the kitchen. 

  
  
  


Soft strokes of water caressing his body. 

His skin felt rough. 

Surprisingly, he wasn’t feeling feevery, nor sore, nor hurt, just the hangover of sleepiness lurking in the back of his head. 

Stand back. 

Let it wash over him. 

Fresh. 

Drips trailing from his hair, over his face. 

When he was finished, he grabbed a towel, his towel, and made it back to the bedroom. 

Soft fabrics, chemical smell from the packaging - no bandages this time, let it breathe. 

The wounds were healing. Slightly pink, white, scabs forming in random patterns upon his skin, reviving it. 

Back to life. 

  
  


Naked.

Get dressed. 

Rest.

  
  


He’d spoken about his parents. 

An hour ago. 

His loving, warm, high-achieving parents who’d do anything for him to be on top of the world - a curse, look at him, so far away from their reality. 

He’d spoke about their home. The almost sterile environment. 

The cold hallway and kitchen, the white walls and grayscale bathroom. 

His friends. 

His studies. 

His very first flat of his own.

His decisions. 

His travels.

And how he’d ended up here. 

  
  


Garak hadn’t said much. 

He hadn’t the need. 

  
  


He knelt down, put on a pair of boxers. 

Socks. 

T-shirt. 

Joggers. 

  
  


He’d spoken about the camp too. 

The men. Their constant tumbling and talking and scoffing and ruffling. Their conversations - endless - life’s meaning, acting out, meeting their soulmates, having their breakfast. 

He’d liked them all. 

A few more or less, but still. They were decent. 

He enjoyed their company.

And still, that wasn't enough. 

  
  


He could hear Garak move from the kitchen to the living room again, and Julian picked up his book, pulled his fingers through his hair then followed, out the door, down the hallway, seeing his back disappear into the common space. 

  
  


Something the other man had said yesterday - one of the few times he’d spoken, reflective and caring - had stuck with him. 

It played in his head. Repeated itself. 

Step. 

Step.

He remembered it so clearly.

  
  


“Fight or flight is in our roots. It’s circumstantial. 

That’s what makes us human.” 

That’s what makes us human. 

It wasn’t comforting, but it felt validating. 

His roots. 

Without his brains and his body, just his instinct, he had made a decision. 

A weak, cowardly one, but still. A decision. 

It was all that he could have done. 

And all that was left for him to do. 

  
  


Garak turned around, having put down a tray with two bowls of porridge, a carafe of water and twin cups of coffee. The tin with the cards on the side, a plastic cup with pills, a glass of juice. 

Mouth, pulled up in a smile. 

Something hiding, as always, behind his icy eyes. 

  
  


“Breakfast, dear Doctor?” 

  
  
  
  


11.30 

  
  
  


He watched him work. 

Squinting, sitting, leg crossed over the other, a needle in one hand and thicker white thread piercing its eye, trailing down the side, over a jean covered thigh. 

Focused. 

Precise. 

Roses, trailing down the silk. 

Elaborate, delicate, the underskirt seeming frothy and foam-like to carry the silk. 

  
  


“Who is it for?” 

  
  


Fingers pinching, folding the fabric, focusing square by square. 

  
  


Breaking the silk. Pulling the needle through. 

  
  


One of many leafs finished. 

  
  


“Inka.” 

  
  
  


Start anew, another leaf, another curve, needle piercing smoothly and steadily, making it seem so easy. 

Relieving. 

Enchanting to watch. 

  
  


“Do you know her?” 

  
  


Cough. 

Fingers through hair, pulling the thread, catching the needle in his mouth. 

Tenderly bringing all lines together. 

They were almost invisible to the matching whites, but they left impressions of luxury and opulence, highlighting the garment. 

  
  


“I knew her father.” 

  
  


Needle back. 

Pull. 

Another stitch. 

  
  


“He was a friend.” 

  
  


“Was?”

  
  


“They’re in Helsinki now.” 

  
  


Slight pause. 

Bothered by this, clearly. 

  
  


Continuing. 

Leave it be. 

  
  


“It’s beautiful.” 

  
  


Smile now. 

  
  


“Thank you.” 

  
  


“If I ever get married, I know who to go to.” 

  
  


Chuckle. 

He’d never seen the man laugh before. 

Strange. 

An odd occasion. 

It was almost like it didn’t suit him, but it was nice. A nice offer. 

  
  
  


“You’re not married, Doctor.” 

  
  


It was a statement, not a question. Not asking for confirmation, presuming, just knowing, just saying the obvious. 

So it was, obvious. 

  
  


Heartbeat. 

Personal. 

Intrusive. 

  
  


“No.” 

  
  


Nod. 

  
  


Stitch, pull. Moving the thin metal, the thin thread. 

  
  


Cough. 

  
  


“Were you, ever…?” 

Needle in mouth, reaching for the scissors, quick cut, quick knot, stretching. 

  
  
  


“There was someone. 

Not anymore.” 

  
  


Silence. 

Clock ticking in the background. 

  
  


Wind breaking against the window. 

Crunching. Pushing. 

Silence. 

  
  


So, so, so curious. He held it in, he couldn’t ask. It wasn’t his place. 

Or was it? After this, all his trust, could he not ask? 

  
  


He didn’t. 

Garak did.

  
  


“Do you want to?” 

  
  


“I’m not sure. 

I’m not religious.” 

  
  


“You don’t have to be.” 

  
  


“Perhaps. 

Still.” 

“Kids?” 

  
  


“At some point.” 

  
  


Hands looking through the sea of silk, finding the spot, inserting the nail, stitch. 

One more. 

Turning the fabric, locking the thread. Another stitch, turning again. 

Motions.

Automatic. 

Skilled, and fluent. 

  
  


“That answers one of your questions.” 

  
  
  


Picking up his cup. Taking a sip of the coffee.

It was his medicine now. 

Better than any anti-inflammatory painkiller, antibiotics. Keeping him at bay. 

At ease. 

  
  


“What question?” 

  
  


Beat. 

Scissors. 

Cut. 

One side of the train was finished. 

White, shimmery, glowing in the light. 

Beautiful. 

  
  


“You do have something to go back to.” 

  
  


It was a start. 

  
  
  


15.35

  
  


Nap on the sofa.

  
  


Three chapters in the book. 

  
  


Two more cups of coffee, prepared by him, and brought to them both. 

  
  


Silent watching and brief conversation. 

  
  


Studying the titles in the bookshelf, recognizing authors, names, translated titles. 

  
  


The one picture, he didn’t dare to ask. 

  
  


One more chapter in the book. 

  
  


Music. Garak’s choice, comfortable noise, jazzy drums and a melodious clarinet. 

  
  


Taking it in. 

  
  


Breathing. 

  
  


He had never felt so good before. 

Never here. 

Never appreciated his circumstances and the mystery beneath them - it was a thrill, a secret, hidden thrill which he buried deep within himself, afraid it’d come back to bite him. 

Who would ever find this so exciting? Permanent injury and cryptic stranger. 

Like comic books he’d read as a child. Hid from his parents, kept inside his school books. 

The abysmal dystopian worlds he’d dreamed of were now his reality - they had been, for so long. 

Not just his, everyone's. 

At home. 

Up north. 

Down south. 

Across all borders, uniting Europe. 

  
  


This place was buried deep inside it all, and yet, it was sheltered. A hiding spot, built by this man. 

Made for this man. 

Now he was intruding, sharing it all with him, feeding of it like a drug. 

And it felt good. 

  
  


Tuck that feeling away. Hide it beneath the others. He couldn’t afford feeling good about this situation, the random events leading up to this discovery, if anything he should feel guilty for living like a parasite and enjoying each sucking breath. 

He’d breathe the life out of this house if he wasn’t careful. 

At some point he’d have to leave. 

Find a city. 

A small town. 

Make a living and start anew. 

Shake off loose ties and stay hidden, but make his own cover. 

That was his goal now. 

The future, so close. He could manage. 

He would. 

Heart beating, muscles tensing, anxiety messing up his brain by the mere thought but determination was stronger, more meaningful, pulling him through. 

He could survive. 

He’d survived his run. His cowardice, his lies. 

He could survive with this stranger, in his comfort, in his home. 

  
  


19.16 

  
  


He slept in the bed. 

Except he didn’t sleep. 

Music was still playing, another record, now a singer.

Footsteps repeating, back and forth and back again. Silence for a while, then coming back for a stroll. 

He wondered what he was doing. 

What he was thinking. 

He never seemed to sleep much, if ever. Was he worried? 

Was there something out there that agitated, kept him awake? 

Imagined scenarios playing in his head. 

A jealous husband, threatening his life. 

The Russian government, putting a bounty on his head. 

Childhood scenarios. Dreams he’d one time had - before it all came true. But in reality, he knew nothing. 

Maybe it was the fever. 

He hadn’t thought like this for a while. 

Another thought. 

Another place. 

The men at camp. Their narrow faces, hollow cheeks and empty smiles. 

Their blue eyes. Bushy brows. Loaded guns, arms, pieces, rifles. 

Black, grey, green. 

The stink of metal. 

Iron. 

Leather. 

Blood. 

The other nurses, doctors, the ones that stayed. 

He could see their eyes - them questioning him, them talking. 

Did they think he was dead? 

Taken? 

Did they know that he’d given up and disappeared? 

  
  


He turned on the light. 

Picked up the book. 

Wanted to be swallowed whole. 

Distraction. 

Another cough attack, resonating like the inside of an instrument. Larynx clenching, vocals ruined, dry, thick, tickling from the inside. Water. Drink. 

Try again. 

Next chapter. 

Cough again. 

Swallow. Mucus. 

Come on, come on, come on. 

Steps outside, he couldn’t focus. 

What was Garak doing? 

Couldn’t sleep? Neither could he. 

Should he go out? 

An inner child flying restlessly out of bed and into the excitement - he couldn’t, he shouldn’t, he should just fall into a sleep. 

Find his own comfort, instead of the others’. 

Don't breathe the life out of it. 

Don't do it yet. 

  
  


Finger on the first sentence on the page. The heroine, Anna, stripping out of her clothes. 

Erotically described, in the most provocative way, carefully chosen words and phrases to capture the reader in their standstill. 

To arouse, to kindle. 

He hated it. 

The author made out the details on her white, cotton bra. 

Her white, matching panties with lace. 

Footsteps.

Footsteps. 

  
  


She leaned forward, picking up her slip on dress.

God, he hated it. 

Suddenly feeling flustered. 

  
  


The music was still playing. 

  
  


Hot. Warmth. Spreading from the inside. 

  
  


Anna folded her dress and put it on her bed, put her hands behind her back to undo her imprisonment. 

  
  


He shut the book. 

This was ridiculous. 

  
  


Threw it to the side and sunk in under the blankets, head heavy on the pillows. 

His heart was beating. 

  
  


Suddenly feeling mocked. 

Stupid, he knew that, 

He wasn’t a teenager, there was no need to feel threatened. 

Yet he did. 

When was he getting out of here? 

Should he think about that? 

  
  


Music stopped. 

He could only hear his own heartbeat, hear his lungs wheezing. 

Harder winds, rattling the windows. 

Wild outside. 

Nature not resting. 

As restless as them both, inside this house, waiting for hours to pass. 

  
  


Eyelids heavy, breath now deep. 

Finally. 

Calmer. 

  
  


He could do this, without the man. 

  
  


He’d done it before, he could do it again. 

Agitating, sure, but necessary for him to know - if he ever was to move on, he needed to know that he could. 

And he would. 

Eventually. 

When time was right and outside tempted. 

Ready or not, he would go. 


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Sorry about the wait! Updates might become less frequent from now, I'm afraid I've been a little busy. Hope this longer chapter can make up for that. 
> 
> A little fun note on the side. I usually write scripts of different varieties (you can possibly tell from this particular style), and this fic has just went over the word count of my biggest project yet. Exciting times!
> 
> Thank you for your lovely words of encouragement so far.

28.02.2043 

  
  


09.09 

  
  


The wind must have set overnight.

Light, seeping through one window. 

Curtains, throwing shadows on the floor. 

Covering the bed. 

Patching up his vision. 

Blinking eyes, shivering body, part by part waking up from its slumber. 

Morning. 

Again. 

Nothing hurting, nothing squeaking.

Checking again. 

He was okay. 

First morning without a headache. Limbs feeling light, emptied of liquids. 

Not perfect, but better. 

A string of joy piercing his chest. 

A feeling he barely even recognized. 

Hope. There was hope yet. 

  
  


Interrupted. 

Faint knock.

  
  


Head came peeking through the door, black hair slicked back and lips curled up in a smile. 

  
  


“Coffee?” 

  
  


Nod. 

Pushing up, jaw hanging loose, eyes adjusting to the brightness - it wasn’t sunny, but not as dark as before, not as clingy, depressing. 

Better.

Lighter. 

Feet on the floor. Step step, taking jumper off the chair. 

Garak exiting. 

He followed his companion to the kitchen, accepting a cup, grabbing a seat. 

Breathing it in. 

Did it smell better than before? 

Or had he never picked up the fragrance of the oiled up wood and freshly brewed coffee? 

Stomach growling. 

Boiled eggs and crisp bread. 

He could eat for days. 

  
  


Maybe this was a good start. 

  
  


“I was thinking of going back to the shop today,” 

  
  


Okay. 

Re-think. 

Okay. 

Deflated again. 

Hours. Alone. By himself, what would he do? 

The night had been one thing, but the day could get lonesome. 

Picking up that dreadful book. 

Snooping around in the house. 

Could he do it? 

He could. 

He needed to, he should. 

Company felt safer. 

Him and his thoughts felt dangerous, but he didn’t want to say no. 

  
  


“Yes. Go. There must be much to do.” 

  
  


Nothing to do.

What could he say? 

  
  


Blowing at the top, cupping the sides, Garak sipped. 

  
  


“I’ll bring your jacket. I can fix it.” 

  
  


Kind. 

Julian smiled. 

  
  


“Thank you.” 

  
  


“Unless…” 

  
  


A pause. 

  
  


Unless what? 

He would leave? 

Not yet, surely not? 

  
  


That same smile playing on his lips, tensing his cheeks, a glint in his eye. 

  
  


“How would you feel about a little walk, Doctor?” 

  
  
  


09.56 

  
  


Stuffed - like an animal. T-shirt, jumper, thermals and trousers, jacket and double socks, boots and mittens. Hat and scarf. 

  
  


“Don’t get worse.” 

  
  


This was true. 

He couldn’t, not with this attire. 

Fresh air beat his face, coloured his cheeks before he’d even stepped outside. Blinding and breathtaking, he stopped on the first step, sniffing the surroundings like a tired old dog, wanting the nature, needing it badly. 

It looked so different from what he’d remembered. 

Trees were taller, bigger up front. 

Path clear and tidy, like a tunnel through the snow. Branches, pine cones, fir needles and loose bark, decorating the sides, dirtying the white. 

Clear as day. 

Blindingly white. The woods still awakening, just like himself. 

Garak took the lead, a bag over his shoulder, careful over the ice but eager to get going. 

They walked slowly, leaving fresh footprints, no sign of the old. It must have been snowing, but maybe not much. He couldn’t quite tell. 

He hadn’t words to describe this feeling. 

No perception of fear, no lingering thoughts, just needs, of seeing, of feeling, of doing. 

It didn’t haunt him now, not in the day.

Not with his company.

Not on their way. 

Each step took caution, effort and force. 

Early he noticed he’d broke into a sweat. 

Crystals on his mittens. Powder on his jacket. 

Step. Step. 

Forceful and raw. He loved the effort. 

Further in they had to make a stop, his lungs caught up on him and coughing was inevitable. 

Again, he’d been fooled, but he fought it with his mind. 

  
  


“Are you okay?” 

  
  


“Let’s keep going.” 

  
  


Step. Step. 

Crunching. 

Flattening. 

  
  


Patterns from shoes, marking the untouched. 

  
  


He’d been warned it was quite a walk, but he didn’t mind it himself. He wanted it. Garak wanted it. And excitement enthralled. 

40 minutes at their current pace. 

10 minutes before the pines got more sparse and the land opened up, mire and moss dominating the land. Light terrain, roots and rocks, a wilderness not unlike the ones in children’s books. Bauer’s paintings. Long-faced trolls and faeries. 

A road further up, gleams of houses in the distant. Red and wooden, flashing between branches and bodies of trees. 

Following the road, almost climbing over the side to get up to the middle. A bridge further up - a small lake to their left, thick grown ice and covered in snow, they made their way to it, to walk past it and see. 

For the first time, he could see mountains. 

Rising in the distance. Northwest, and northeast. 

Humble mountains. Small in scale, a pleasure for the eyes. Peaky outlines of pines trailing up the tops. 

15 more minutes and it all seemed to repeat itself, smaller in scale, closer to them both. 

More trees and more snow. 

Flatter and longer and increasingly familiar. 

House upon house. 

Mailboxes and ditches. 

Tyre tracks pointing forward. 

The last 15 minutes were a crescendo of population - where land had seemed empty it was neatly divided, and cars would go past them as they walked on the street. 

The road was now a street, and they’d entered the village, somewhere the last 7 minutes they’d affronted civilisation and it hadn’t crossed his mind. 

A gas station. 

A parked truck, with its driver out front. 

A food shop with a big sign, a hardware shop, and a florist’s. 

He was struck by the impression of abandonment from this place. Seeming peaceful and quiet, it did keep him calm, but each sign and each building had an elderly atmosphere - scraped off paint and half-finished doorways, half-lit signs and wonky-looking street lights. 

It wasn’t well kept but somehow, it was still standing. And he was sure it was pure manpower keeping it up.

The kind of community you could only find in a place like this. 

At a time like this. 

In a world, like this. 

He’d never lived anywhere like that. 

In a way, he was jealous. 

Not of their situation, not of the abandonment but the comradeship - the inherited brotherhood and stubborn minds. 

A sprinkle of that could have changed a lot of things. 

It must have changed Garak. 

  
  
  


Passing the florist’s, not far from its doors he could see another sign, the one he’d been looking for. 

No name, no details, just big, black letters on a big oval shape. 

Atelier. 

Simple. 

Even tasteful, in its own bareness and elegance. 

The other man reached for keys in his pocket, and walked up the first step to turn down the handle. 

Following, behind, curious to see. 

This was the door in. Another opening for him to see. 

Another way into this covered mind of his. 

Open yet secret. 

Masked for the open eye. 

But this was Garak. 

And he was finally getting another peak. 

  
  
  


11.00 

  
  


The shop was a decorated, open wide space - three tables, a desk, and a display of various garments hanging on the walls. 

There were shelves and hangers, fabrics in rolls, sewing machines and spools scattered around the room. 

An organised mess. 

Julian should have known. 

In ways, it felt more like a home than the house he’d spent so much time in. 

Warm brown, deep burgundy. All kinds of shades and textures, a creative minefield for the indecisive, and he loved its vibrancy, its passion and soul. 

It had soul, it was rustic. 

Older. Like the town it belonged to. 

Pieces of the puzzle started to fall together. 

But still, there was so much to know. 

  
  


“Any thoughts?” 

  
  


Garak picked off the sign from the window, a lonely piece of paper stating a short message in Finnish. 

  
  


“I like it.” 

  
  


“Thank you.” 

  
  


Throwing the paper in a bin, turning towards the bench. 

An old till, buttons with numbers and manual screen. 

He pushed it, opened it, pulled out a small bag in leather and picked out some cash. Neatly unfolding each note into the slots.

Julian had another chance to look around. 

A suit in linen was hanging on the wall, a bust from a mannequin wearing a perfectly pressed shirt. 

Mostly these items seemed made for the male body, but a couple of blouse-like creations seemed open to suggestion. 

He paced back and forth, examining each garment. Placing a hand on five jumpers, hanging perfectly in a row, on an open rack. 

Wondering how they would feel. 

He took the liberty of walking into what seemed to be a changing room. Boxes on the walls, branded with notes, a drapery for modesty and suit-wearing mannequin. Tweed, very uncommon. Possibly imported. 

A luxury, this place. 

A lot of time and effort put into it. 

  
  


Exiting the smaller space, he paced around the studio. 

“Cup of tea?”

From the corner. 

  
  


“I’ll make them for us,” he replied. 

  
  


Down the left side was an entryway to a small kitchen - one bench with a sink, a microwave, a kettle, a mini fridge and some old packages of biscuits. A table and chairs, and what seemed to be the door to the bathroom. 

He filled up the kettle and waited for it to boil. 

Some milk in the fridge. 

Five stale gingerbread biscuits. 

Christmas had been over for a while, anyway.

  
  


Teabags, clattering cups, a spoonful of sugar and Julian brought it all back to the open space. Offered one cup to the man, and took the other for himself. 

Garak was now standing by one table, meters of rolled out fabric in front of him, thin paper and stencils, pencil and eraser and scissors to the side. Another pencil in his hand, marking the corners with his measurements, tape-measure casually thrown over his shoulder. 

  
  


“What are you making?” 

  
  


Looking up. 

Wrinkles by his eyes, a line of concentration between his brows. 

  
  


“A suit.” 

  
  


“Your specialty?” 

  
  


“I suppose one could say that.”

  
  


“Do you mind if I watch?” 

  
  


That smile never seemed far away now, always there, hiding on his lips. 

Was there something that amused him? 

Was there something Julian said? 

Either way, it had returned, and more than ever, Garak seemed earnest. 

  
  


“Please. Feel free.” 

  
  


So he sat, and he watched. 

Passed a pencil when he was asked to, folded the stencils once they were used. Listened to the calming sound of scissors cutting cotton. 

It filled his head with white noise. 

Caught him up in a bubble. 

Blocked his ears, numbed his fingertips. 

More comfortable than that bed, in that house, in that room by myself. 

He liked this. 

He liked the comfort of this. 

He wished that he could be here every day, doing this, seeing this, having a meaning. 

If that’s what this was. 

A distraction from all else. 

And even so, even if that was the case, he still wanted this. 

So he enjoyed it. 

  
  


17.58 

  
  
  


Garak turned the sign on the window as they got ready to leave the property. He had finished pinning the different pieces of fabric together on a mannequin, but got distracted halfway through and worked on another jacket he had laying somewhere else.

Julian had watched, quietly, trying to cut through his mind. It seemed unfocused. 

He wondered why. 

Had he felt vulnerable? Slowly letting someone in? 

Slow, wasn’t it? Or had this all been too quick? 

It was just a shop, he knew that. 

But it was more than that to the man, he could tell. 

It was him. 

He’d pieced up Julian’s jacket, patching open holes and replacing the zipper. 

Thankful. It would keep him warmer. 

Two cups of tea down and it was already getting darker outside. 

Now, they would leave. 

It was just as dead outside as it had been in the morning, but somehow it felt emptier now, gloomier and darker. It certainly was darker. 

Not just pitch black with a starry sky, dark as in ugly. 

But that was a stupid thought. 

A few street lights helped them see along the way, but as soon as they’d left civilisation it was turning impossible to see. 

Faint glow from the white snow, echoes of cars in the distance. 

Eventually that would grow quieter and quieter and it would just be them and their ragged breaths - pushing and forcing their way back home. 

Trees, quiet. Wind, brisk, short. 

It even smelled differently. 

He wasn’t scared. 

He had no right to be. 

Or did he? 

He didn’t know. 

There were birds. Possibly other animals, he couldn’t see, but nothing big, not that close. 

Garak made small talk, as polite as he could, and Julian only half listened, focusing on each step. 

His breath growing heavier and heavier with each step he took. 

He would get through his. 

Thinking of the house, the bed. 

The shop, the lights, the fabric, the clothes. 

What food he’d be eating as soon as they got back. 

Moorland - stretching out. The mountains got bigger. 

Preparing for the woods, how close they would feel, how he’d ran there, before, when he didn’t know where he was. 

Had he passed the village back then? 

If he had, he wouldn’t be here. 

He would maybe be on his way home already. 

In a hospital. 

Even dead. 

This was better, even the road back to the house was better than the thought of what could have happened. 

Could have. 

Could have. 

Should have, even. 

Should he have died? 

Garak pulled out a torch. An old, red, plastic thing. Half an hour in, was it not too late by now? No, they’d soon leave the road, walk onto the path, surrounded by everything and all the same, nothing. 

Last 10 minutes, he could do this. 

He could walk with this man the road he must have walked every day for a very long time. 

Trying to find comfort in the situation, looking at him. Looking at his hands, his dropped shoulders, his face. 

Calm. 

Pale. He couldn’t see much, but it was enough. 

Only 10. 

Falling deeper and deeper inside his mind. 

A hand on his back, supporting him briefly as he stepped over ice-covered roots and snow. 

Following their steps, the ones they’d marked this morning. 

Crunching.

Crunching. 

Step and step. 

Deeper in, pushing in, an arms length away, but it didn’t feel like it. 

More. 

More. 

Deep breath. 

Numb. Hands so cold he could barely feel his fingers and toes. Double socks and hard, firm boots didn’t seem to be doing it anymore. 

There, he could see it. 

The light above the door was on. 

The small, timbered house. 

Bodies surrounding it. 

Bodies of trees. 

Pines. 

Fir-trees. 

Birches. 

They passed the last one. His breath escaping as Garak lifted the keys from his pocket and once again reached for the door, finally letting them in, finally taking them home. 

Quick glance at the darkness behind him - all too familiar, all too close. 

He had made it through it. 

He had power now. 

  
  


“Best lit the fireplace,” Garak said. “Must be chilly inside.” 

  
  
  


20.13 

  
  


Dinner by the fire. 

Crackling and warm. Body recovering, healing like a wound. 

  
  
  


“It’s a beautiful place you’ve got. The shop, it’s… Remarkable.” 

  
  
  


“I’ve worked hard on it.” 

  
  
  


“Did you open it yourself?” 

  
  
  


Nod. 

  
  
  


“After you…” 

  
  


“Yes. When I came back.” 

  
  
  


He wanted to ask more. 

  
  


Had something happened? 

  
  


Why wasn’t he fighting too? 

  
  


Why were they both here, excluded, so far away from borders and action and willingly standing by? 

  
  


Perhaps it wasn’t willingly. 

Perhaps not for Garak. 

  
  
  


“You’ve done well.” 

  
  
  


“It’s hard work up here, Doctor. It’s always been like that, but especially now, given our circumstances.” 

  
  
  


“I can only imagine.” 

  
  
  


Piercing the skin of a sausage with his knife, moving it towards his mouth. 

Chewy. 

Salty. 

Greasy and tasty. 

  
  
  


“I’ve always wanted to do something similar. Well, not similar, but doing something on my own.” 

  
  
  


“You can. Anything you like.” 

  
  
  


“I don’t do much but medicine.” 

  
  
  


“You will find something. If you really want to.” 

  
  
  


Silence. 

Chewing. 

Scraping on the plates. 

  
  
  


“Would you go back to medicine?” 

  
  
  


“I’m not quite sure.” 

  
  
  


He really wasn’t. 

  
  
  


“There is always a great need.” 

  
  
  


“And the need will never stop.” 

  
  
  


Big sigh. 

Twice as dramatic as he wanted it to be. 

  
  
  


“True. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” 

  
  


Warmth in his eyes. Warm like the fire. 

Keeping him from harm. 

  
  


It felt ridiculous to think that, but it was what he thought. 

He was kept away, and he didn’t mind it at this time. Didn’t mind feeling like a child again, protected by someone older. 

Someone who knew him. Who understood him. 

He was sure that Garak did. 

If one thing was clear to him, it was that Garak understood. 

And he was ever so grateful for it, and would always be grateful for it,

possibly even until the day he died. 

  
  
  


00.19

  
  
  


It called him again. 

Such a stupid thought, having something calling him, but he felt it in his body like rush of revenge. 

He needed to be out again. Needed to breathe more fresh air, and feel that power, feel that strength. Him, being strong, being able to be out there. 

Leaving the bed without even thinking about it. 

Dark now in the hallway, lights out all over the house. 

Boots on. Jumper and jacket. Mittens, hat and scarf. 

Slowly turning the handle, seeing himself like a child, sneaking out. 

And he did. Sneak out. 

Feet on the small steps leading down to the ground and reaching the cover of thick and white. A big, broad, stretched out blanket, as comfortable as his bed, and he had to try. 

Step. Step. 

The small patch of open space just outside the house was not bigger than the bedroom he would sleep in, and it hadn’t been broken since the snow had fallen fresh. It took more effort to break the layer, but he plowed on through, making a trail of his own. 

A couple of meters away from the house, he stopped. 

Looked around. 

Looked at the trees.

Listened for sounds. 

  
  


Empty and quiet, as empty as he remembered. 

  
  


Fall down. 

Do it. 

Fall to the ground and listen. 

  
  


Back flat against the soft layers, cold and sticky against his jacket, molding a shape after his body that was lying in it. 

He breathed. 

Relaxed. 

Felt the cold breaking in, coming in under his jacket. 

Looking up. 

At the sky. 

Big. 

Endless. 

Stars like stains on a big, black canvas. 

White. 

Tiny. 

So, so, so, so far away, but they still felt close. Closer than the nature around him, closer than the house. 

Speckles of dirt, in reality just flames - just fire, explosions, some of them already dead, but he couldn’t see that.

He couldn’t feel that. 

They were too far away. 

  
  


There it was. 

Power. 

What he’d felt before when they’d reached the house, the ultimate power he could have over himself - he could make the decision to get out here again, after running for so long. 

  
  


He didn’t have to run now. 

He could just rest. Out here, taking it in. 

Breathing the forest. 

Breathing its air. 

  
  


Was this what he’d been feeling before? 

When he’d somehow lost consciousness and fell into the cold, had he felt this powerful? Or had he just felt helpless? 

  
  


Even then… Had he been content? 

Had he been happy and accepted that his life was over? 

  
  


Or had he even thought? 

He couldn’t remember. 

  
  


Maybe it would come back. At some point, maybe it would. When his brain decided that he was ready to know it. 

  
  


He wished that he’d been content. 

  
  


Right now, what he was fighting for, for his blackening guilt to stop eating him alive he almost wished that he had been dead. 

Maybe he actually was. 

Maybe this was heaven. 

  
  


Except he didn’t believe in heaven. 

  
  


And if this was heaven, what was Garak? An angel? A rough, broke down tailor in a house he barely saw as his home, what kind of eternal being was that?

Deserted, out here, with no one but himself? 

  
  


This could be the in between - the realm that no one got a taste of, especially made for him.

For his dilemma. 

Garak would fit right in. 

  
  


No, he was sure. 

If he was actually dead he wouldn’t be in heaven. He wouldn’t be in between.

He’d be in hell. 

  
  


A noise. 

To his left.

He didn’t look. 

He didn’t want to.

His heart didn’t even beat, it kept quiet, kept still. 

  
  


He had the power to move if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to. 

The noise went away. 

  
  


Maybe a squirrel. 

Maybe a fox. 

  
  


He grabbed a handful of snow with his left fist, squeezed it in his hand, shaped it into a ball and crushed it with his fingers, let the leftover grains fall down into his jacket. 

Melting, in under his arm. 

Remembering that feeling from when he was young, being outside, playing, getting wet in all uncomfortable places. 

Ankles, wrists, neck. 

The worst, down the neck. 

Rosy cheeks. 

Red nose. 

Frizzy hair, wild as a troll. 

Wishing he could be there again. 

Heart beating now, quicker and quicker in his chest - had he given it all up, or had he ran from that too, voluntarily, giving it all up? 

  
  


His childhood was long gone. 

His teenage years, his youth. 

  
  


He’d grown up far too quick. Behind those sterile walls, in that grey brick laid building which he barely called his home, studying too hard and living too little, breaking from the stress but somehow never managing to stop. 

What had become of him? 

This was the one time he’d had more purpose, healing the broken, standing up for his country. 

And he’d ran. 

Broke down for real this time. 

Almost died. 

  
  


He balanced on the line between guilt and pleasure, enjoying the peace for the first time in his life, feeling awful for doing so but continuing to relish in it, bathe in it, crave it. 

This was what he always should have had, 

but he didn’t deserve it now, 

not after everything that happened. 

  
  


He closed his eyes. 

Moved his fingers, feeling the blood flow - toes, feet, fingers, arms. The rest just numb, the skin over his thighs prickling but he ignored it. 

It was so cold he could barely take a deep breath anymore, but he still felt relaxed, still felt refreshed. 

Peaceful at heart. 

Knowing nothing more than he knew before except everything was gone and he had nowhere else to be, nowhere else to go. 

That was freeing. 

Dangerously, beautifully freeing. 

It hadn’t been until now, it had been scary before, but now it was a relief. Much like his existence, his survival, his broken lungs and frostbitten limbs. 

He was a relief. 

There was no one knowing that he was here, and that was electrifying. 

No one. 

Except one. 

  
  
  


Creaking, forceful, a sound he was familiar with. 

Sudden. There. 

The door behind him, he couldn’t see it, but he knew it had been opened, and soon footsteps followed - quiet, easy footsteps on wood. 

  
  


His heart. Beating beating beating, panic - no, excitement? No, he didn’t know. 

Crunching, closer. 

Shadow. 

He looked bigger, darker. 

Just his jacket and boots on, Garak towered over him. 

Eyeing him. 

Irises still bright, even in this vast darkness. Icy. White. 

  
  


“I looked for you. You shouldn’t be out here.” 

  
  
  


Beat. 

  
  
  


“I had to be.” 

  
  
  


This confidence came from nowhere. 

He didn’t feel confident. 

He felt nonexistent. 

But he sounded different, his voice was someone else's. 

  
  
  


“You’re going to get worse, Doctor.” 

  
  
  


“You really need to stop calling me Doctor.” 

  
  
  


Garak stared at him. 

Into his fibers, in through his body. 

Right into him. 

Figuring him out. Bit by bit, cell by cell. 

  
  
  


“Okay. Julian.”

  
  
  


Garak didn’t move. 

  
  
  


“You should get inside.” 

  
  
  


“I like it here.” 

  
  
  


“Your cough is going to get worse.” 

  
  
  


“It’s already terrible.” 

  
  
  


“Yes. But it’s getting better.” 

  
  
  


His heart beating. 

Silence. 

  
  


Staring, up. 

  
  


Focusing. 

  
  


One spot at a time. 

  
  


Shining. 

  
  
  


“I just wanted to…” 

  
  
  


He stopped himself. 

Didn’t know what he wanted to say. 

  
  


He didn’t know what he wanted or needed, or why he’d come out here.

It felt logical. 

Or, it had been. Until now. 

  
  
  


Step, shadow changing, knees bending - Garak sat down, next to him, in the snow. 

Uncovered. Bare to the cold. 

He must be used to it, but still. 

  
  
  


“Yes. I know.” 

  
  
  


Didn’t expect that. 

Didn’t know what to reply. 

Garak knew this better than him.

How? 

He just did. 

Maybe he wasn’t human after all. 

  
  
  


“This has been… My exile. For so long. I’ve not ever stopped to appreciate the beauty of it.” 

  
  


Pause. 

Heartbeat.

Heartbeat. 

  
  


“Your exile?” 

  
  
  


An opening. 

An offering. 

  
  
  


“You could say.” 

  
  
  


Encrypted. 

  
  


But this was something, something for him to chew on. 

  
  
  


“You didn’t choose to come here?” 

  
  
  


“It was a choice. But there weren’t many options, I’m afraid.” 

  
  
  


“I would choose this.” 

  
  
  


Was that a smile? 

It was hard to tell in the dark. 

  
  


Garak looked up. 

  
  


They were silent. 

  
  


Watched the endlessness. 

Watched the dark. 

  
  


The quiet. 

  
  
  


“You’ve kept me sane.” 

  
  


Let it sit there, free of judgement, just a statement, just the truth. 

He didn’t want to say thank you one more time, thank yous lost their meanings, but he was fine with the truth. 

Didn’t want to say too much, didn’t want to ruin this. 

But he had to let him know he was grateful. 

  
  


He would survive this. 

He hadn’t almost died to die again. 

  
  


He was here now. In the purgatory. 

In the exile. 

But at least he wasn’t alone. 

  
  
  


Garak didn’t reply. 

But he thought he could feel the other man’s arm slightly touching his, through the jacket, through the snow. 

  
  


Only now, he couldn’t feel his warmth. 

  
  


He was numb. 

  
  
  


“We really should go inside.” 

  
  
  


This time, he didn’t argue. 

  
  
  
  
  


01.30 

  
  
  


He’d needed help up on his feet, through the door, with every step. It must have been much colder than he thought, now he was frozen again, and it couldn’t be a good thing. 

Quickly to the living room, quickly lit a fire, quickly got a blanket wrapped around himself as Garak searched for new clothes. Nothing left of the old ones he’d been given, so the other man’s fleece and a pair of his trousers would have to do. 

Change. 

Support. 

Undressing didn’t seem tempting, losing layers even for a second was torturous, but he managed. 

Hands shaking. 

Teeth rattling. 

Skin numb. 

He couldn’t sit. 

As his body ached, he cursed for himself for being so stupid. 

It was, stupid. 

But he longed for that help. By now, it was a given. 

The arm around his back, the support and balanced stealth. 

As he looked down on the floor, bending one knee to the ground he squeezed the other man’s shoulder as tight as he could, and felt his muscles go numb beneath him. He would have fallen if he’d been there by himself - but he wasn’t.  Luckily, he wasn’t. 

Slowly. 

Slowly. 

He sunk, deeper down. 

Re-positioning his hand, further up, to Garak’s neck. 

His fingers brushed his hair, touched the naked skin over the collar. 

He was down. 

The steady arm held him tight, under his body, keeping it straight. 

Shaking like a leaf. 

Breathe. 

  
  


“Breathe.” 

  
  


Cold, cold cold. Again. He’d done this to himself again. 

Garak didn’t say anything. 

But he didn’t let go. 

He kept him steady, on the floor. Kept his arm around him. 

If he didn’t, he would maybe fall. 

That was his excuse. 

Re-positioning. 

Comfier. 

Opening up to every source of heat he could find. 

And they sat. Silently, body still shaking on the floor, but getting better for every second that passed. 

Heat from the fireplace. 

Heat from the other man’s body. 

His arm around him, chest against his shoulder, his other arm on the floor. 

It did the trick. 

He would calm down. 

He would, eventually. 

But this? This was okay. 

This felt okay.

For now this was all he needed. 

Mind running. 

Thinking ten things at the same time. 

His heartbeat fast,

And then irregular. 

His hand moved. His own, the one still untouched, moved in towards the heat between them, stroke over the other man’s shirt. 

He didn’t dare to look up. It was purely practical, but it was intimate. Way more intimate than he had been with anyone before, and he didn’t want to ruin it - make it into something it wasn’t. 

Gentle. 

Muscles relaxing again. 

He just wanted to be warm again. 

He’d had his fix. He’d felt powerful now, he didn’t need that anymore. It would be there again when he lost control - for now, this was fine, even better, maybe. 

It wasn’t comfort. 

It was contentment. 

  
  


So he looked up. 

Met blue eyes. 

  
  


And it was different. They looked different than they had before. 

Indescribable, but he guessed, not as cold. 

Or maybe not as bright. 

He’d been right. It was intimate. 

And he craved it. With his whole body, 

he craved intimacy. 


	7. 7

01.03.2043 

  
  


08.09

  
  


It had been a week. 

It was march now. 

Much wasn’t different when he woke up that morning. Actually, nothing was different. 

Like always, but he still expected something. 

The pressure from Garak’s body still lingered on his. 

He could feel it, even when he was lying by himself in the bed, nothing but duvet and blanket and covers swallowing him up. 

But he could feel his skin, the nape of his neck against his naked fingertips. 

This man. 

This honest, puzzle of a man. 

  
  


He’d shared more with him than he had with his own parents. His family. His closest friends. 

Just because he’d been here. Picking him up at his worst.

He’d never been at his worst before. 

  
  


Thoughts were distracting. 

He couldn’t continue like this. 

But he knew he’d feel it. For the rest of the day, he’d feel their embrace. 

Just for himself. 

Tuck it in there, hide it along with everything else. 

It couldn’t come out again. 

That he’d enjoyed it. 

That he’d needed it. 

Some things were better left hidden. 

  
  
  
  


10.01

  
  


He wanted to have breakfast outside. 

Garak refused. 

It was reasonable. He had to listen. 

  
  


They ate their porridge in the kitchen, over another set of gin rummy. 

Julian lost twice. Garak won the overall game, scoring 46 points on their last set, earning just enough to reach over the 100 point margin. 

He seemed pleased. 

He took pride in the small victories. 

Julian appreciated that. 

He had never really learned how to do it. 

But he got something new out of their casual interaction and mindless activities every time he got a chance to read into them - read into the other man’s mind, get a glimpse of what was hidden. 

It was a small mission of his, a motivation. 

He was intrigued. 

This drip-fed feed of trust helped him gather his own thoughts, and at the same time focus on what was new. 

Where he was. 

Who he was with. 

He felt like he knew this man. 

He felt like he was his friend. 

  
  


He offered to do the dishes this time, and Garak allowed it. He had company for the first couple of minutes, but finished it up by himself. The man came back in just as he was putting the last plate to dry, to tell him that he would be going out again. 

  
  


“I have to go back to the shop. I have someone booked in today.” 

  
  


“Should I come?” 

  
  


“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” 

  
  


Ouch. 

But he was right. 

He was always right. 

  
  


“Okay.” 

  
  


“You shouldn’t be out again in a while.” 

  
  


“I guess I shouldn’t.” 

  
  


The other man smiled, apologetically. He knew that he wanted it, and he knew that he needed it but it would have to wait. 

Just for now, he could do on his own. 

  
  


“I’ll be back before 6.” 

  
  


“There’s no need to rush.” 

  
  


Now stern. 

  
  
  


“Before 6.” 

  
  
  


And he took his things and left. 

  
  


Julian stared as the door closed behind him. 

  
  


He could do this. 

  
  


He could. 

  
  


He could go out too if he wanted, maybe just for a walk. 

  
  


Ten minutes and he was stood there, looking at the door. 

Lost in his own thoughts. 

  
  


Turning off the tap, walking up to the window - there was nothing outside to see, just endless layers of white. Garak was gone and he was by himself. 

  
  


He escaped into the living room. 

  
  
  


13.43 

  
  


He made himself lunch, sat down by the window. 

Lunch was an overstatement. 

Boiled eggs on crisp bread and a cup of coffee. He hadn’t the appetite, not just then. 

Snow was still falling outside, nothing had changed since early that morning and the restlessness was still gnawing away inside, eating his stomach like a parasite. 

Skin crawling. 

At some point, he’d even picked up a book in Finnish and tried to make his way through it. 

He gave up after half a page. 

  
  
  


15.01 

  
  


Lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. 

Reliving his previous moments of distress. 

This was a test. To see if he could make it. 

He’d said that he could, so why couldn’t he? 

Follow the patterns. Follow the lines. 

Think of something else. 

  
  


16.30 

  
  


Maybe he’d taken this opportunity lightly. 

This was a chance to have an uncensored look at the house. 

He’d seen the kitchen - he’d seen the bathroom, bedroom, living room, hallway and he was sure that there must be a basement somewhere beneath it all. 

He started with the bedroom. 

Arguably, he’d know all of its details but he’d never actually opened the wardrobes, scanned every book, not up close, and he was curious. 

So he did. 

It was full of surprises. 

  
  


There were no photos, but there were traces of a past life that he could follow. Garments that were braver than the ones the man was currently wearing, day suits and shirts with more detail and finesse - he almost wanted to try one on but didn’t dare to. 

Patterns and textures and fabrics that weren’t flannel. 

Trousers that weren’t jeans or joggers. 

Moving on. 

He seemed to like Dostoevsky, given the volumes with foreign titles but the author’s name printed big on their spines. Some other authors he barely recognized, some ones he’d never even heard of, two books by Kafka and one by Shelley. 

Frankenstein. 

It had been his favourite as a boy. 

  
  


Moving on. 

  
  


The bathroom. 

Bright and white and surprisingly telling. The cabinet had all different kinds of things in it - first aid, antiseptic, cotton swabs, bandages. 

Traces of someone preparing for the worst. 

Chilling. 

A sudden hesitation sprung from his gut, and he was stuck. Just looking. 

They’d used none of these things when they’d cleaned out his wounds. 

He had his own, he’d gotten by, but why hadn’t he offered? 

Was this reserved for someone else? 

For Garak himself? 

Staring. 

It was new. 

It was unexpected, but it couldn’t be malicious. 

Could it? 

He closed, looked away. 

Preparation, surely. Preparation in case they came. Another army, another catastrophe, just in case there would be something there. 

Or just in case  _ he’d _ have to do something. 

That was speculation. Pure speculation and fantasy and all in his head, but he couldn’t help but think it, he’d been in it for too long. He’d seen it all. He’d seen the worst. 

And Garak was probably the same. 

  
  


He could save as many bandages and first aid kits as he liked, but he still couldn't shake the fear of having to use them. 

It would eat him up. Just like it did with Julian. 

He headed out to the living room. 

  
  


There were more things on his mind now. 

  
  


He’d scanned this place so many times by now, but there was still one thing that he was curious about, and he headed straight to the bookshelf to retrieve it. There it was, waiting still, untouched since the last time he’d seen it. 

The frame, the colour, the picture inside. 

He picked it up. 

Looked at it closely. 

Wrinkles by the other man’s eyes, his arm around the other. 

Proud smiles glowing through the glass. Hair slicked back, jackets over their shoulders. Green and blue. 

Younger. 

Almost animate. 

He could sense the movement through the freeze. 

Let his fingers turn the frame, undo the pegs, lift the back which held it up and pick up the photograph - there was a sentence there, a name, at the back of the picture. 

Thin, black letters in ink. 

Only one word he understood. The name. 

Elim. 

Elim Garak. 

Someone had written his first name, the man in the picture, there with him, and then given it as a gift. 

Was this the same man he had spoken about before, the father of Inka, the daughter of the dress? 

They seemed close. 

Maybe it was just his imagination, but he doubted even that. 

This man had meant something to Garak. 

He wanted to know. 

He wanted a glimpse of his mind, of his memories. 

And he wondered if he’d ever get it. 

  
  


Steps. 

Rattle. 

A door handle turning down, 

A door opening. 

  
  


“Julian?” 

  
  


Garak’s voice. 

For just about a second, Julian was frozen before instincts saved him and quickly quickly pieces the frame together again. Following fingers, fumbling ahead, 

Breathe,

Breathe,

Footsteps. 

Fold. 

He could see the shadow of the man in the corner of his eye, but he didn’t have enough time,

and he was opened, exposed. 

  
  


“What are you doing?” 

  
  


He blinked. 

Turned. 

Frame in his hands, pieced together, but there. 

Garak was still wearing all of his outerwear. 

Worried that he had left. 

Caught him at this betrayal. 

  
  


“I’m…” 

  
  


Searching for the right words. 

Couldn’t find them. 

  
  


“I was curious.” 

  
  


It was the truth. And the right time to tell it. 

Garak looked at him. 

Through him.

Behind him. 

At the picture, back at his eyes, then - with a smile.

Air puffed out Julian’s lungs like they’d exploded. He took a deep breath in relief. 

  
  


“It’s fine. It’s a picture. I wouldn’t have it up if I didn’t want you to see it.” 

  
  


He was still keeping his whole focus on Julian, swallowing him up, nailing him to the floor so that he couldn’t escape.

But he was warmer now. 

His heart was beating. 

  
  


“Who is he?” 

  
  


“He was a friend.” 

  
  


“The one you mentioned before?” 

  
  


A slight wrinkle between his brows. 

He didn’t like being questioned this way, it seemed. But Julian wanted answers. 

  
  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


“And he…  _ Was  _ your friend. In the army.” 

  
  
  


Beat. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

  
  


There was something in his eyes this time, an indication. 

This man. 

Garak seemed a completely different person than the one in the picture. 

  
  
  


“We were…” 

  
  


This time, he was the one to not finish his thought. And Julian stared back. 

That indication. 

Oh. 

  
  


“Okay.” 

  
  


He got it. 

  
  


It was different. 

  
  


“We don’t speak anymore.” 

  
  
  


“But you’re making his daughters wedding dress?” 

  
  
  


“I was. Before. Then I came here, they went away, things got complicated.” 

  
  
  


Complicated. 

At least. 

This man’s whole life was a puzzle and he couldn’t figure out where to start putting the pieces together. But he’d managed now, managed a little bit. 

  
  
  


“I don’t think of him anymore.” 

  
  
  


“But you’ve kept this photo.” 

  
  
  


“It’s just a memory. Different times.” 

  
  


Garak brushed it off. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore and Julian reluctantly let go of the photo, put it back where it belonged. 

  
  


The other man moved back, started to peel off his jacket, walked out of the room. 

He could hear his steps disappearing towards the door. 

Heart still beating. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

Had he done something wrong?

Stepped on a toe and shut down a door that would never open again? 

He didn’t think so. 

He didn’t want that. 

He prepared to apologise, to take back whatever he’d done if it made things wrong. He’d only been curious. 

But the next time Garak stepped through that doorway, his warm smile was back. His eyes full of life, bright and lively. 

He held back his apology, tucked it inside. If he got a chance, he would bring it up. 

But Garak was back and he was smiling again. 

Less weary. 

More warm. 

  
  


“So… What would you like for dinner, Doctor?” 

  
  
  


22.51 

  
  


Walked into the kitchen. 

The other man, leaning against the counter, head tilted forward to look out the window, arms crossed and palms closed.

His black hair more ruffled than before, even darker in the light. 

White t-shirt. 

Blue jeans. 

Music from the player. Soft, sweet jazz again. 

Julian watched. 

An adrenaline rush, crawling up through his blood. 

He liked it better than his restless fights. 

He wanted to say something. 

Something new. 

Something interesting. 

Nothing came out. 

Head turning, seeing him, mouth shaping sounds of surprise but the room remaining quiet except for the slow tinker from instruments. 

Silence. 

He took a step closer, and one more. 

And one more. 

And they were close again, quietly. 

Not facing him, not eyeing him down, he couldn’t. 

Remembering his touch. Their very first - being carried, he couldn’t grasp it but he could feel the swaying motion of his body held up. 

A finger brushing against his, grabbing a cup from his hand, or a plate, or a bowl. 

Skin against skin before undressing for the bath. 

An arm around his shoulders. 

His face against his collarbone, breathing into his stomach. 

A brief touch on his back, making sure he wouldn’t slip. 

In different orders it came back, now face to face with this man, and he wanted to feel it again, see it again, smell and touch and live in those moments because he needed it as bad as he needed the fresh air. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

Taking another step, feeling their closeness, feeling what they’d been before - when he’d been out of his mind and begging for help, but it was different now. 

He chose this. To do this. 

And Garak didn’t step away. 

He just stood. 

Watched him, calculated his movements. 

A hand, reaching out. 

Landing on his arm. 

Palm soft, and warm. 

Heart beating again. 

All was forgiven, and all was forgotten, and now it was time for him to give back. 

Give something. 

Return the touch. 

His hand, upon his shoulder. Fingers gripping the side of his neck, having a taste of it, feeding off his pulse. 

Sliding down towards his chest, towards his heart, feeling its beat. 

Steady. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

It was routine to him now, feeling that heart beat. 

So close. 

So intimate. 

He still couldn’t say anything, couldn’t find a word on his lips, but Garak didn’t either, he just looked. 

Dared to meet his gaze, this once, only quick. 

Stuck. 

Looking right through him, looking inside his head. 

Julian couldn’t make sense of it himself, but Garak knew it better than he did, even after all of this, even when his thoughts were shambles. 

He shouldn’t be feeling like this. 

Like this was the single most important moment, and he could break it so easily. 

Then other man moved his hand, up, up, towards his face, touching his cheek - cupping it, warming it, holding it in his palm. 

That was more. 

More than he’d wished, more than he’d thought. 

It burned under his touch. 

He wanted to lean in. To put their foreheads together and breathe, live through it for a second of peace but he couldn’t take another step without crossing a line that he’d painted in his head. It was important, and he put it to rest. 

Stayed as he was. 

Closing his eyes to just feel. 

And he breathed. 

In, and out. 

Let his mind rest, let their eyes meet. 

Let him feel the warmth of touch one last time, 

Then he turned around, and walked away. 


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Syaunei uploaded a chapter of Under the Blind Moon to spoil me yesterday. Better return the favor, right?! 
> 
> Thanks for helping me through this!

02.03.2043 

  
  


06.59

  
  


It was still dark outside when he woke up. 

On the edge of the bed was a silhouette, the outline of a body he recognised too well. 

Hunched over, looking down on his hands. 

Julian turned under his covers, raised one hand to stroke his hair back, blinking frequently, adjusting to the dark. 

Garak looked at him. 

Pinched his lips in a forced smile. 

  
  
  


“What time is it?” 

  
  


Vocal folds straining and tugging down forcefully. Hoarse and uneven. 

Using elbows to crawl up against the bed frame. 

Still blinking. 

  
  


Was there something sad over the man’s face? 

Was he imagining this? 

  
  


It was partly fuzzy, like a dream. A projection from his mind, seeing what he wanted to see, pushing it out of him. 

  
  
  


“7 in the morning.” 

  
  
  


“Do you have to leave?” 

  
  
  


Shaking his head. 

  
  
  


“I wanted to ask you something.” 

  
  
  


Turning body, giving Julian his full attention, Garak leaned in close enough to establish a trust. Capture the conversation. Make sure this was rich. 

It was important. To him, it was, and Julian was stuck to his bed, sticky with sweat between his skin and his shirt. 

  
  


One. 

Two. 

Three. 

  
  
  


“Do you feel like you have to give this back to me?” 

  
  
  


At a loss. 

  
  


Give back what? 

  
  
  


“I mean…” 

  
  
  


Reaching out, touching his arm. 

  
  


“... This.” 

  
  
  


Racing thoughts.

Racing breath. 

Racing heart. 

  
  


This must be a dream. 

This must be a nightmare. 

  
  
  


“What do you mean?” 

  
  


Finally, lips shaping words. 

  
  


What did he mean? 

  
  
  


“I don’t want anything from you, Julian. I just want you to get better.” 

  
  
  


Stammering. 

Almost pleading, pathetic -- 

  
  
  


“I know, I know.” 

  
  
  


“Good.” 

  
  


He seemed so sure. Like he was putting an idea to rest, carefully cutting it out of his head, but Julian hated it. It was the death of him - it felt like it. 

His voice was as dry as his thoughts in his head, he had to swallow, hard, and Garak seemed to be done. 

He’d gotten an answer, but Julian hadn’t. 

He needed to be honest. 

  
  


Laying it to rest was not an option anymore. Not when it was disappearing, right before his eyes. 

  
  
  


“But I just -- “ 

  
  
  


“You don’t owe me anything.” 

  
  
  


“ -- But I need it.

  
  
  


Frown. 

Unsure. 

A question hanging between them, right in the open air. 

  
  
  


“Need what?” 

  
  
  


“Need… This. “ 

  
  
  


So ridiculous. 

What was he trying to say? 

How could he put it into words? 

“I don’t want you to think -- “ 

  
  
  


“I’m not sure what to think.” 

  
  
  


“So maybe don’t, just for now?” 

  
  
  


Could he save this, by now? Was it too late, was it over? 

  
  


And in that case, what was over? 

  
  


He mind needed to be soothed. Of what, he wasn’t sure. But Garak’s touch was helping. 

His hands had been his escape. 

Stupid and risky. 

  
  


Garak watched him, still in disbelief. 

He spoke, hesitantly. 

  
  
  


“If you think I am lonely you don’t have to make up for it.” 

  
  
  


“It’s not that.” 

  
  
  


It really wasn’t. 

But he could see how he’d been led to that conclusion. Asking about his life, asking about his friends and his past. His exile, out here, that he was now a part of. It was as much of his reality as it was Garak’s but he’d taken it for granted. 

Now Garak thought he’d been touching him for a cheap fix. 

To give back all that he’d given him. 

He couldn’t continue, but he had to. 

How could he make this clear? 

  
  
  


“I’m scared. All of the time, and being here has been too good, it can’t be real, I just wanted to make sure --” 

  
  
  


“It is real. But it’s not exactly heaven.” 

  
  
  


“It’s good. You are good. You have… Cared.” 

  
  
  


“You were dying.” 

  
  
  


“But I’ve liked it. When you’ve kept me up, I have liked this, and…” 

  
  
  


He reached out his hand, lead it to the other man’s cheek. Touched it. Cupped it, like he’d been touched before, in the kitchen. 

  
  


And he thought. Something dangerous. 

  
  


Garak wouldn’t be asking this, if he didn’t see something in it. 

It maybe wasn’t right, he maybe found it stupid, but after all, they had both been doing it. 

It wasn’t a one-man effort. It took them both. 

  
  
  


“You have been through a lot. I’m not your saving grace, Doctor.” 

  
  


“Maybe not.” 

  
  
  


Fingers, trailing up the other man’s temple, up to his hairline, fingers entwining the black and thick. Soft, and delicate. Stroking down, falling to his neck, caressing as gently as he possibly dared. 

This was new. 

Or was it really? 

Had he thought of this before, when he was carried to the bathroom? 

When he was supported by the arm? 

When he was resting against his body? 

  
  


“But I…” 

  
  


He looked into his eyes. Saw the hesitation, and for the first time since they’d met, he saw insecurity. 

He was gambling. They both were. 

  
  
  


“... I just feel okay, doing this. Having this.” 

  
  
  


Now Garak’s hand on his arm moved, up to his chest, placed over his heart. 

Mirrored from before. The splitting image, but opposite sides. Opposite placement. Similar sentiment. 

Palm must be moving to the sound of his heartbeat. Erratic, uneven, it was beating like a rabbits’. 

  
  
  


“You must know that.” 

  
  
  


He didn’t get a reply. 

He didn’t need one. 

Looking at him was enough to feed whatever was left unspoken. 

This wasn’t everything. It was a glimpse of what he felt, what he hadn’t dealt with up until now, but he needed it to be said or he would lose whatever was left. 

It was still dark, it was still morning, his hair was ruffled and his voice gravely but he had never been more honest than this and it fueled him like food, placed a temporary plaster on things left to heal. 

  
  


He didn’t want anything to break. He’d broken enough, now this was it. 

  
  


Then his body gave in. 

A cough attack, a deep gasp for breath, leaning forward, looking away - he would ruin it. 

Spasmic muscles bending him down, breaking his focus. 

Then an arm around his back. 

Garak moved in closer. 

Stroking over his shoulder blades, up towards his neck. 

Nothing came out, only a dry, wheezing noise. 

Cramp. 

Release. 

Breath. 

Let it out. 

When it was over, his eyes were wet with tears. But Garak was close, and he was there with him, again, keeping him straight, keeping him up. 

  
  


“Lie down.” 

  
  


He did as he was told, sinking back, deep under the covers. Tired of his body, of his mind, of his senses. 

The room seemed to spin under that solid bed of his. 

Then Garak lied down. 

Next to him. 

Closer, closer. 

A split second of thought, lifting the covers to accommodate and they joined together like it was natural - in the warmth, where it was safe. 

A body so different from his, both longer and broader, and physically connected. 

Hesitant to touch at first, his limbs feeling awkward, but when he reached out his arm it was folded by the others, and his head fell onto his chest, next to the pillow, like it should. 

He didn’t dare breathing. Didn’t dare moving when everything was so still. 

The other man did, awoke a peacefulness and calm. Tap into it, make it real. Make it feel natural and human and something that shouldn’t break. 

  
  


He was tired. So, so tired. 

  
  


“This is good?” 

  
  


Garak mumbled. Into his hair, next to his ear. 

Wind whipping against the window, rattling the glass, but it was warm. 

And it was safe. Safer than he’d ever felt since waking up that morning, eight days ago, with bruising all over his body. 

  
  


“This is good.” 

  
  


Slight cough, hand stroking his back, holding him tight. 

This was good. As good as he dared to deserve. 

It was stupid, selfish, and he felt guilty for not even thinking about why he was here, how he’d ended up here, but right now, he didn’t care. 

For the first time, he didn’t give it a thought, and it was freeing. 

So freeing. 

So they lay there. 

Under the covers. 

Arms entangled, cheek against chest and hand upon back. 

Just living. 

Just breathing. 

Just listening to the outside world. 

  
  
  


18.12 

  
  


If anything could ever be considered normal again, he would call the rest of the day so. Proceeding as usual with nothing estranged, he almost couldn’t believe that it happened.

When he woke, Garak had given him lunch. When they’d eaten, they had laughed and spoken. 

He watched him read. He watched him sow. 

He shared a story from when he was studying, to Garak’s distracted amusement, and he didn’t feel an irreplaceable need to run out of the house and disappear. 

It seemed familiar. 

An inner feeling of content and clarity. 

But as the day progressed, he grew more anxious. 

He couldn’t help it. 

It wouldn’t stop. 

It was a nagging thought, a quiet voice, convincing him that this would now be over. He’d been comforted, he’d got what he needed - what else could he possibly wish for? And even when his fingers clawed for more intimacy, there was no way he could simply reach out and touch. 

That would ruin it, wouldn’t it? 

Like waking up from a good dream. 

Thrown back into reality. 

The chilly wind, wrapping around his limbs, a warm light from above as the only source of light as it grew darker and darker outside. 

These things came back to bite him. 

To claw, to get under his skin. 

Pacing, nervously. 

He knew that it would show. 

  
  


And now he would seem like a teenager again. Miserable and gloomy, always looking for a way out. 

He didn’t want to give that to Garak. 

He didn’t want to offer it. 

  
  


When they were preparing their second meal in the kitchen, he stood in silence and watched. 

As the other man lifted cartons of veggies and rough cut potatoes out of the fridge, he imagined what his skin would look like without clothing. 

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t about his touch, it was about his body. 

To see if he existed. 

If he was human. 

He could see his back, the bumps, the outline of his spine down to his lower back. Scars, of plenty, and muscles that had grown weak. 

  
  


Comparing it in his head. Comparing it to the bodies he’d held, tried desperately to stop bleeding. 

It didn’t look pretty. 

It was a painting of disaster right before his eyes. 

Garak’s body instead of the others. 

Was this all he could bring him? 

More heart wrenching defeat? 

  
  


But he was out now. 

He was away from all that chaos, he was away from the lines. The borders, the core of it all. 

And still, he dared to dream. 

  
  
  


Garak turned around, that same wrinkle of concentration between his brows, but it dropped as he looked up, met his eyes, met his gaze. 

  
  
  


“Something on your mind?” 

  
  
  


Something so white, something so bright, had never felt so warm. 

  
  


So he threw it aside. 

Blinked away the images of blood. 

Swallowed a growing lump in his throat. 

  
  
  


_ Let me have something.  _

  
  
  


“Nothing at all.” 

  
  
  


Moving forward, reaching out a hand. 

Offering help. 

Doing what he could. 

  
  
  


_ Just one second of something.  _

_ Just for now.  _

  
  


All he needed was this. 

  
  


So they cooked in silence. Ate in silence. Continued with the evening, and their mindless activities. It didn’t bother him that it grew autonomous. 

He almost needed it to be so. 

A little flinch, a little touch, a finger brushing over another was enough for him to feed on. 

And the thoughts were always there. The memory of their morning. His body. 

His clothes. 

The covers, the cold. 

Sheltered from outside. 

Rooted from within. 

  
  
  
  


21.41 

  
  
  


On the steps outside the door, looking up at the sky. 

As bright and clear as the other night, even colder, even brisker. 

Black sky. 

Dark shadows. 

The only thing keeping things visible was the lamp above the door, throwing down light, leaving shapes and figures in the snow. 

  
  


Up there. 

All stars.

Still gleaming, still accounted for. 

  
  


He let them surround him, and wallowed in the thought of it. 

  
  
  
  


“I had never been up here before.” 

  
  
  


Beat. 

  
  
  


“I might have mentioned that before. 

But I think it’s changed me.” 

  
  
  
  
  


“I changes us all.” 

  
  
  
  


“Even the people who were born here?” 

  
  
  


“Especially them. They were born with it. Within them.” 

  
  
  


“What is it exactly?” 

  
  
  


Garak was quiet. Stood behind him, didn’t move or flinch. 

Just thought. Until he offered an answer. 

  
  
  


“Something hard, holding us here. It’s bittersweet. It kills, and it nourishes.” 

  
  
  


“Like your exile?” 

  
  
  


“I’m afraid that’s more literal.” 

  
  
  


Reaching out. 

This was a gift. 

  
  
  


“I was placed here. I was told not to come back. I should have died, but I didn’t. 

I’m here instead.” 

  
  
  


Listening for emotions. 

Couldn’t find one. 

  
  


It was tactile, and it was cold, but it was still something he’d offered and Julian was thankful. 

  
  


He couldn’t have asked for anything else. 

  
  
  
  


“Would you stay, if you did have a choice?” 

  
  
  


Garak sighed. 

  
  
  
  


“Two years ago, I wouldn’t. 

Now, I think I should. 

I don’t think I can leave. 

It’s eaten too much of me.” 

  
  
  


“I think it’s eating me too.” 

  
  
  
  


They stayed in silence. 

He could hear cracking and wheezing, but it was part of them now. 

It was part of this place. 

  
  
  


“I could stay here. In town, learn the language, get a job. 

I don’t have to go back.” 

  
  
  


“You should go back. They would find out.” 

  
  
  


“Maybe they wouldn’t.”

  
  
  


“But what kind of life would that be?” 

  
  
  


“One that I’d chosen.” 

  
  
  


Beat. 

Beat. 

  
  
  


“You need to choose carefully.” 

  
  
  


“I don’t want to choose carefully. 

I want to do something because I feel it. Not because I’m scared.” 

  
  
  


“And are you scared?” 

  
  
  
  


He had to think. 

  
  
  


“Maybe right now. 

But I won’t be tomorrow.” 

  
  
  
  


“You can’t know that.” 

  
  
  


“I can’t not.” 

  
  
  


“You should think about it.” 

  
  
  


“I will.” 

  
  


Almost annoyed. 

But he really wasn’t. He just wanted to feel. To say something that would make a different. Maybe just try and see if things could be different. 

But they couldn’t, could they? 

  
  


This was temporary. 

At some point, it wouldn’t be. 

  
  
  
  


“I still have time. I will figure it out. I’m just trying to find out where I should be.” 

  
  


A soft, big hand on his shoulder, squeezing through the jacket. 

Frost crunching, ice melting. 

  
  


“You have more, Julian. You have more to figure out.” 

  
  
  
  


22.02 

  
  
  


They parted ways once they got inside. 

  
  


Garak placed a hand upon his cheek, put on a tiresome and helpless smile, but he didn't stay for long, he let it all go. Julian could still feel a prickling under his skin. 

He wanted to plead, and beg, but he was tired of the struggle. And if the blooded pictures in the back of his head came crawling, he wouldn’t be breathing. 

  
  


He watched the back of the other man’s head, his posture, as he walked down the room to leave this twisted day behind. 

  
  


It had been nothing but confusing, not even rational, just clouded by emotions and fears. 

Emotions he hadn’t been sure he had. 

But now he was. 

  
  


And Garak was walking away, headed to his own space. 

  
  


So Julian watched. Left him to his own 

Let him go, let him escape. 

  
  


Until he crawled back to his own space, feeling empty with exhaustion. 

  
  


He needed rest. 

He needed sleep. 

Then he would think, and think and relive. 

  
  


Until his mind let him fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a busy work-week ahead but I'm going to try to keep updates fairly frequent. With that said, it might be a week. It might be three days. Who knows! I don't. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are now being beta'd by the lovely Syaunei.

03.03.2044

  
  


07.30 

  
  


It was determination that built him up. 

It took some time to recognize the feeling, but once he did, he let it thrive. 

He was up earlier than Garak, put on coffee and looked through cupboards of tinned foods and dried provisions. Found a loaf in the fridge, buttered bread and cut ham, wanted to make it perfect, wanted to spoil. 

  
  


It was an apology. For what, he wasn’t quite sure. 

For allowing things to be different. 

He didn’t want them to be. But that was unclear. 

  
  


He found it luxurious, ham and mustard and brown, hearty bread. His mum used to make it, closer to Christmas, filling him up before church. 

Church. 

He’d hated it, but he’d gone. 

He knew they’d all hated it, but it was routine. Some things he couldn’t say no to. It was only when he’d moved out that he’d finally had that choice. 

They didn’t have an impact on him anymore. That’s when he realised how slavishly he’d followed their orders, begging for their praise. For their approval, and their embrace. 

His father in particular, the sturdy and firm. 

He would never say a thing unless strictly constructive. 

Home. 

It tightened his chest, the mere thought of it. 

It wasn’t home anymore. 

It couldn’t be. 

It hadn’t been. For the longest time, it really hadn’t been. 

  
  
  


“What’s all this?” 

  
  
  


Turn around. 

  
  


There he was. 

  
  


Body slightly hunched, shoulder tilted forward. Hair in a coherent mess and eyes gleaming in tired delight. 

  
  
  


“Breakfast. It was my turn.” 

  
  


And Garak smiled. Right in front of him. 

Wholeheartedly. 

Broadly. 

His teeth showing, mouth open, and more happily than he’d ever seen him before. 

  
  
  


“You do surprise me, dear Doctor.” 

  
  
  


Words of affection. 

His vision almost started to spin. Spiral, all dizzy. 

A tug at his heart, so gentle, but there. 

  
  


No. Stop. 

Don’t think of it, just live on it, let it simmer. 

Tuck it away. 

  
  
  


“Why else am I here?” 

  
  


And he placed their meal at the table, inviting him in, creating a field of opportunities to relish and explore. 

But Garak seemed to enjoy the simplicity, and ate his breakfast in silence. 

His fingers holding the plate, the bread, his careless fiddling with the knife on the table. A quick drink of water, and a glass full of milk. Brushing crumbs with thumb from the corner of his lips, glancing briefly out the window. 

Micro-movements all casual to him, but to Julian they were embellishments, a dose of medicine to his healing wounds. 

They warmed his stomach. 

Cleared his vision.

And for now, he was content. 

For now, that was all he wished for. 

  
  
  
  


10.02 

  
  


They went to the shop together. 

The walk felt shorter, more radiant, he barely noticed the whipping cold. 

Inside looked the same as before, only cleaner upon inspection. Maybe Garak had really needed some time for himself, to untangle this mess, and he felt slightly guilty for taking up space. 

This was what he lived for. It was how he made money to eat, and live, and more time off would mean less means for the future. 

He didn’t seem to mind, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever mention it. 

It was a passage of politeness, simple but surfaced play. He’d never know if he didn’t ask. And he wouldn’t ask. 

He just wouldn’t. 

  
  


They were here now, at last, and Julian was happy he could tag along. 

  
  


Work proceeded as usual. More detailed now, only one project ahead. A dress cutting down to the non-existent ankles of a mannequin, long sleeves and v-neck, a conservative design for an older woman. 

He guessed. 

He liked the guessing game. 

Watching fingers folding delicately, expressions changing as his hands danced over the fabrics in use. When something wasn’t going according to plan, Garak grunted, and Julian took that as a sign to offer whatever help he could. 

Sweeping the threads off the carpet. 

Making tea and biscuits. 

He wished he could be of more help, but in reality, he knew nothing, he didn’t have much to give except company and brainless chatter. 

  
  


There were two guests, at separate times. He conveniently hid at the back of the shop, managed to sneak out back just in time for them to enter. Compromising this safety blanket would change a lot of things, not just for him, and he didn’t want to be the man who brought havoc on a simple tailor’s livelihood. 

He had to keep his mouth shut. 

Act normal, stay out of the way. 

He was a misplacement after all. 

An item of inconvenience. 

The slightest mistake could bring forth unthinkable consequences. Ones that he’d rather not see before he left. 

Some he could deal with, just as long as they belonged to him. 

That wasn’t noble. 

It was just simple. 

He couldn’t hurt someone who’d given him this much. 

  
  


So when his customers left, he stayed down low, and didn’t say much to preserve the peace. 

He didn’t need another thing to weigh down his conscience. 

The other dozen things were quite enough for now. 

  
  


Garak worked tirelessly, for hours, to Julian’s satisfaction. 

It was easy and fun to watch, it was entertaining. 

He really cared. 

He let it drive him. 

He wondered why this fascinated him so. 

He knew that Garak was careful. He knew that he was a good man, but this? It seemed to prove it. Quieted his doubts and put a thought into his head - this man is actually here. He is real. You’re watching him live. 

So he watched, in good faith, 

until Garak turned around with a mischievous grin on his lips, and eyebrows suggestively raised. 

It felt intimidating. 

It broke his calm. 

  
  


“Doctor.” 

  
  


Julian nodded. 

Unveiling motion. 

Fairly theatrical. 

In his hands, he held a suit jacket, simple and smart. It looked somewhat shrunken in the bigger man’s hands, fingers digging into its shoulders, holding it up. 

“I need a volunteer.” 

  
  


He simply stared. 

  
  


Julian should have known he wouldn’t get away that easily. 

  
  


“You have mannequins.” 

  
  
  
  


“What are mannequins to a live model? It’s the least you could do for me, Doctor.” 

  
  


Was he deliberately teasing him? 

  
  


Safe to say their relationship had taken a turn, but this was new territory for their dynamics. 

He liked this shade on Garak. It was a touch of someone he might have been before, or someone he was hiding, and on top of this, he was right. 

He never thought he’d gamble with his insecurities, but this? This was cheeky. 

And he couldn’t say no to it. 

  
  


So within minutes, he was undressed. Put in a sleek, ironed button-up, and placed in front of a mirror. Shadow of the tailor towering powerfully behind him, lifting his arm to lead it into place. 

  
  


The jacket slid on like it had been molded to his body. 

Shoulder-width to detail. 

Waist slightly bigger. 

Sleek, and sharp, and wonderfully smart. 

He stared at his reflection seeing nothing but a ghost. 

A stranger, on the outside of the glass. 

He was ruffled. Cheeks still red, nose red, trouser mismatching the rest of the ensemble but god, did he looked cared for. 

And the other man beamed proudly over his shoulder. 

  
  


“The measurements are perfect.” 

  
  


“Well… Almost perfect...” 

  
  


A hand on his shoulder, leading his body to the side, turning it in different angles, the other hand on the small of his back. 

  
  


“Look at the waist here. I’ll have to tuck it in.” 

  
  


Pinching the sides where the seam was barely noticeable. It thinned down his figure, made his torso look broader, his body look taller. 

“Not sure I like that.” 

  
  


Tongue in cheek. 

  
  


“Not sure? You look spectacular!” 

  
  


Both hands now around his waist, holding it in, holding it tight, but ever so gently. Like being wrapped in the most delicate hug, his breath felt pushed. 

  
  


“I’m joking,” he managed to say, still spellbound by the imagery. Was it the jacket, or was it Garak? 

Was it his work, or his hands? 

A bit of both? 

A mix of everything? 

Fingers lingering over his waist, holding it tight, respectful distance. 

Wishing they were closer. 

Sucking in his semblance. 

  
  
  


“It’s gorgeous, Garak.” 

  
  
  


“I’m glad you like it.” 

  
  


Nonchalant, playing around, pulling a tape measure hanging behind. Placing it over his hips, following his figure, mumbling behind; “be still,” even when he was, and Julian closed his eyes to live it. It wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t embarrassing to be pampered so, unlike his memories of formal dinners and grand receptions at another place, another time. 

  
  


“I’ll make some adjustments.” 

  
  


Half a suit off, he suddenly felt naked. Garak lifted it off him like a hospital gown before surgery. Full of procedure, acting accordingly. 

He didn’t want to take it off. 

It felt like a part of him now. 

  
  
  


“Surely you can’t…” 

  
  
  


Stopping his thought. 

Was he jealous of a jacket? 

Now that was definitely stupid. 

It was the jacket-bearer, surely. The blessed man to wear such a thing. 

  
  
  


“... I mean, it’s fitting to someone else. You can’t adjust it to me.” 

  
  
  


“Ah… That’s where you are wrong, my friend.” 

  
  


Garak half mumbled over at the work bench behind. He leaned over the spread out garment, pinning needles to its back. 

  
  
  


“I have a very good eye for these things, you’ll see.” 

  
  
  


He grunted, embarrassed that he might have offended a professional. 

  
  
  


“Of course, I just mean -- I just think you should maybe call them in, instead of using me --” 

  
  
  


“Julian.” 

  
  


Spinning around. 

Gleeful smirk and a stare like raven’s, sharp and intelligent. 

  
  


_ What.  _

_ What now.  _

  
  
  


“It is for you.” 

  
  
  


Oh. 

Mouth wide open, drawing air in. 

Clueless and rattled and lost by four words. 

  
  


Offended at first, he wasn’t sure why, and then bewildered, shaping words, escaping from his mouth without him thinking; 

  
  
  


“You can’t --” 

  
  
  


“Oh, I can.” 

  
  
  


“But I can’t possibly take --” 

  
  
  


“Yes you can!” 

  
  
  


Standing up straight, the other man drilled his gaze into Julian’s like a parent, scolding his child, telling him off for being disobedient. 

  
  
  


“I wanted to. It’s my job.” 

  
  
  
  


And Julian stared. At the jacket, back at Garak. At the fabric, at the needles and mannequins and bright, white eyes. 

  
  


Let out a sigh sounding slightly like a huff. 

  
  


Squirmed inside, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. 

  
  
  
  


“I haven’t got any money.” 

  
  
  


Garak rolled his eyes. 

  
  
  


“What…?” 

  
  
  


“It’s a gift.” 

  
  
  


“I can’t accept a gift.” 

  
  
  


“You don’t have a choice.” 

  
  
  


His heart tugged, uncomfortably. 

  
  
  


“So you don’t want it?” 

  
  
  


Defensive. “No, no… I --” 

  
  
  


“I’ll re-adjust it for someone else, then.” 

  
  
  


“No, wait --” 

  
  
  


A playful smile, caught in the act. Of course he knew it was pressure, but still, he sighed, feeling his defeat. 

  
  


“It’s just a gift, Doctor.” 

  
  


Now kind. 

Now warm. 

Invitingly pleasant, all teasing aside. 

  
  
  


“I know…” 

  
  


He walked up to the table, hand tracing the delicate seams, following their pattern. The shiny black, the bigger buttons. The piece was seemingly stylish but somehow still common, nothing special, nothing grandiose, but still, it was too much for him. 

Dark, and deep. 

He’d never feel that special again. Proud enough to put a suit on. 

  
  
  


“Thank you.” 

  
  


He smiled, reluctantly. 

  
  


Hand on his shoulder, up to his neck, thumb on his jawline, holding him up. Rooting him to the ground. 

Keeping him still. 

Keeping contact. 

  
  
  


“It was my pleasure. Really.” 

  
  
  


“I don’t know how I’m supposed to…” 

  
  
  


“Ah, there’s no need. Really. I enjoyed it.” 

  
  
  


Garak sat down. Put his hands into working mode, shifted focus without issue and left Julian standing to the side, still confused. 

Then he continued to work, just like nothing had happened. A faint hiccup in his busy day, just another moment in his life with little meaning. He let his hands go, let them dance around the fabric and put needles into place. 

He didn’t think. 

It didn’t matter. 

But it meant more to Julian. 

Which he himself, of course, ignored. 

Instead he stood at the side, watching motions and creativity flow freely through his friend. He watched him pin, cut, fold and draw, until the wrinkle between his brows had faded, and something changed as he looked down on his work. 

This was something. 

This was detail. 

And he could probably watch it for hours. 

So he did, by himself. On a chair, modest distance. 

Until the picture of him in that beautiful suit became clearer and clearer and stronger inside his head. 

  
  
  
  


20.00 

  
  


Lying in bed, cheek squished against the pillow. 

He felt heavy again, pulling weight against gravity. For every breath he took, he could hear his heartbeat adjust inside his chest - short and quick, at a rapid pace. Slow and deep - a frightening pause. It would continue, surprising him, until he had no energy left to pay it. 

Beat. 

It beat. 

It paused, then it beat. 

The rest of the world had fallen into a momentary slumber , and he was the only person awake, a tiny little life in the grand scheme of things. His heart was the only thing beating. 

No rattling or creaking could come and break this bubble. It was armed steel and Kevlar. 

Even comfort couldn’t help but make him agitated. 

  
  


Echoes inside his brain. 

Thud. 

Hiss. 

Spinning and circling. 

Imaginary movements and patterns in his brain. 

He thought that he’d gone past this. 

It had been a while since the last time. 

But it was unmotivated now, it wasn’t similar, it was physical - now it was him, a part of him and not his thoughts, not what he was. He didn’t run, he didn’t hide, he let it wash over him like a wave, like the sea, crashing in. 

Unbreakable bubble. 

Blocked ears, blocked nose. 

  
  


But he could do this on his own, he just needed a distraction. 

  
  


He stayed in bed. Laid heavier against the pillows, against the mattress, covered up. 

Lent himself to his thoughts. 

Remembered what kept him calm. 

Hands. On his body. 

Back pressed against the shape of Garak’s chest. His touch, his presence. An atmosphere of total loss, with words, with thoughts. He needed to be back there, to feel it, to regain that steady rhythm of swaying back and forth, head and heart in the same place. Thoughts and mind at ease. 

  
  


It was close, he could sense it. 

  
  


He wanted fresh air. But putting bare feet on cold wood was the last thing he needed. So he stayed. Thought of tomorrow. 

Thought he’d get up early. 

Go for a walk. 

  
  


He could stay at home, or would that bother him? 

Most of all, he wanted to be close to someone. 

Then he saw their faces. 

  
  


Jonas, 25, short hair and blue eyes. Mikael, 32. He had two sons. Two children at the age of 6 and 8. 

  
  


They were lost. 

  
  


He’d barely got to know them. 

  
  


And now he dared to live this freely? 

Be this whole, create a new start? 

What it would do to him, he wasn’t sure. 

  
  


He imagined a flat. 

A small, warmly lit space with bookshelves against the walls and a big, long sofa. A table covered in notepads, a desk for all his papers. 

He could have that, he could get back to it. 

Without Garak? 

All by himself. 

What it would do to him. 

He sunk further down, like he was sinking into sand. Grain by grain, a centimeter further. Covered and dense, so compact it closed him. Moulded him. Left him empty. 

It was a decent thought. 

It stilled his heart. 

Every bit of bone inside his neck, his skull, his cheeks, it pounded. Feeling swollen, feeling rotten. Pressuring his brain - muddling his vision. 

  
  


He could be content here too. 

  
  


Would Garak want him? 

Beating. 

Pounding. 

  
  


Go to sleep. 

  
  


Imagining his touch, his hands, where they’d been over his hips. With a soft push guided him to a turn, leading him in a dance, in front of that mirror. 

He’d seen himself. 

A different man. A man he could be, someone he could be not just again, but grow into, give birth to - it didn’t have to be like before, it could be him again, but new. 

Julian Bashir. 

Doctor. 

Going places, not running away. 

Wearing a suit. 

Private clinic. 

If this war ever ended, it could be him. 

Pounding. 

Pounding. 

He saw himself picked up. Clean shaven, cut hair. 

Someone by his side. 

A shadow. 

A shadow sitting on the side of his bed, looking at his hands, except he wasn’t, he was standing next to him, holding his arm. 

A hand around his shoulder, like that photograph. 

A photograph of them. Not this foreign man, with his cheeky smile. 

Them two. 

Them united. 

  
  


It was enough of a comfort to let him drift away. Another place, another time, where he wasn’t at a standstill. 

He could dream of it forever, let his head believe it was true. 

Let him see it. 

Let him feel it. 

Laughing, smiling, being used to feeling like that. 

Except that gentle tugging, gentle thought -  _ you know it won’t be true.  _

_ You know it won’t be there.  _

_ It’s a dream, inside your head.  _

_ It made you run.  _

_ You’re feeling strong.  _

_ You want this to be real?  _

_ You hope too much.  _

  
  


All things come to an end. 

  
  


_ Give yourself a week.  _

_ If a week is not enough to prove that this isn’t real, then you can believe.  _

  
  


A week. 

He could do a week. 

He could stay here for another week, and if he wasn’t satisfied, if he didn’t get better, he could give himself more time. 

But things were looking up. 

Did he want to get better? 

A week. 

_ Then leave.  _

  
  


He would have to, at some point. 

  
  


When this week was over, he could decide. 

  
  


Then he drifted. 

Sunk. 

Into grains, into snow. 

His body heavy, his breath so weak. 

And he tumbled into a shallow sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know... I know... Tailors being tailors. I had to do a fitting-scene, I'm sorry, it was just inevitable. 
> 
> Leave me your thoughts!


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally...

04.03.2044

  
  


06.44

  
  


He needed some time for himself, just to think. 

It had been early, he had been lost when he’d finally fallen asleep last night, but it was enough to keep his restless sense of agitation alive. 

Even when he woke, it would tingle inside. 

Resonate and crawl, until it crept up through his guts. 

Heart would skip. 

And he remembered. 

A week. 

He’d give himself a week. 

For guidelines, for safety - he knew he couldn’t leave without them, so in this way, it would be easier. 

  
  


He couldn’t tell Garak. 

He had to keep it for himself. 

  
  


Seven days, or six rather, would be enough time for him to recover. Who knew, he might get worse, his plan would stop and he could change things. There was always that possibility. 

But his secret wishes couldn’t rattle this promise. 

Couldn’t let it. 

Wouldn’t let it. 

How on earth he’d get past that, he didn’t know. 

  
  


It was still dark, but it was getting lighter. He put on all things, made sure he was quiet, wrapped himself up to the point where he thought he might strangle himself - but that was good, that meant he’d be okay. 

Turning the handle, ever so silently. 

Stepping outside to the break of dawn. 

  
  


Barely bright behind those pine tree trunks. 

Started to walk. 

He knew where he was going. 

Step by step, leaping further and further. 

It was a quiet morning. The wind was still, the twigs snapped softly under his boots, like they adjusted to his much needed discretion. 

Path lead the way, out to the road. Past the mire land, past the rocks and moss and duvet of snow. 

Roots and fir. 

Trunks and branches. 

Breath. 

Oxygen like ice, sticky, itchy, cooling down his core. 

Keep it up. 

Keep on moving. 

  
  


Hands folded in his mittens, he clenched his fists, took big steps and quickened his pace, wanting to get there. 

Needing to get there. 

He wanted to be back before Garak woke up. 

Maybe he already had. 

Maybe he was confused. 

Don’t think about that, just this once. 

Think about yourself. 

_ You need this.  _

He could see it, in the distance. The path leading up to the road - a break in the pattern of never-ending trees. Lines of birches, growing more scattered - and there, there was the bridge, a glimpse of it in the distance. 

The lake. 

The ice. 

Layers and layers of frozen water. 

  
  


Quicker. 

Step it up. 

  
  


He needed to get there. 

  
  


The land opened up, and he was facing the mountains; further away, deeper in the north. 

Miles and miles of stretched out plains, except they weren’t plains, it was all covered ice. Reminiscent of fields on a bright summer’s day. 

He took a small path on the side, cutting away from the road, and zigzagged between the trees to find his way to the shore. 

Shore was an exaggeration. But it lead him into the open. 

The snow was deeper. He had to lift his knees quite high before piercing it, pushing his feet down. 

One step at a time, half a meter further on. 

He walked. 

Five steps.

Rest. 

Another step, and he was further away from the thickness of the woods. 

Freeing, at last. 

The open space, so inviting. 

  
  
  


He wanted to scream. He’d done that once, when he was a kid. He’d been in the countryside, on a field, and he’d just emptied his lungs with a heart wrenching squeal - he couldn’t do that now, he wasn’t able. There was a thick wall between him and that freedom. 

He’d grown out of it. 

Sooner than he’d liked. 

But it called him. 

So he knelt. 

The next best thing. 

Down. 

Into the thickness and into the cold, feeling the breeze against his cheeks. Dyeing them red. Frost on his eyebrows, eyelashes and stubble. Ticking and itching, steaming hot breath. 

Still cool, still sticky, but fresh and new and alive. 

Swirls of fog arose from his breath and floated in the air. 

He fell back, like that night, when he’d looked at the stars - but now, it was light. And he sucked it like honey, enjoyed its effect. 

It had truly been depressing to be somewhere this dark. 

It had its downsides, this place. 

As much as he liked it, he couldn’t ignore that. 

But he was able to enjoy these things. These small moments where he could finally think, not rotting under his covers, or feeling helpless next to another. This was a drug. This was his clarity. 

Sanity, as oxygen. 

Inhaling it. 

Through his pores, through his lungs. 

Crystal clear. 

Deep breath. 

He wished he could lay there all day. 

And maybe he could. 

Maybe he should, just stay away from the cot and his safe space haven. 

He had a week to enjoy this, and he wanted to make sure that he would. 

Wounds were healing. Coughing less frequent. 

Anxiety would never really go away, but it wasn’t a part of every second of his life anymore. 

Things were looking better. 

And he would make sure it continued that way. 

As scared as it made him, he would make sure to keep that promise, and it would help more than it would hurt. Clearing his way. Open more doors. 

Even if it meant closing the one that seemed to matter the most. 

At least for the moment. 

  
  


He closed his eyes. 

Took another deep breath. 

Felt the freeze inside his lungs, felt how the water turned to ice, cooled down his throat, tickled his nose. 

  
  


Clarity. 

Finally. 

Maybe not for his heart. 

But for his mind. 

  
  
  
  


10.26 

  
  
  
  


When he finally got back, Garak was sat on the doorstep. 

He didn’t look calm. Not like he used to. 

He looked scared. 

Had something happened? 

For those three hours he’d been gone, had he missed out on something crucial? 

Blood pulsing, quickening his pace, as he reached the doorstep he locked eyes with the man who had now got up on his feet. 

There, to his surprise, he didn’t meet pity - 

he met resentment. 

Black, cold, and buried within his eyes. 

A gaping hole, stretching wide open. 

Crumbling beneath his feet. 

  
  
  


“Where have you been?” 

  
  
  


It turned him into stone. 

  
  
  
  


“I wanted to get out.” 

  
  


“Out?” 

  
  


What was this? 

  
  
  


“Yeah. Just out.” 

  
  
  


“You need to tell me when you do.” 

  
  
  


“Tell you? Why?” 

  
  
  


“You might die.” 

  
  
  


“I’m not going to die.” 

  
  
  


That was ridiculous. 

  
  
  


“You’re just getting better, you can’t take off on your own.” 

  
  
  


“I just needed some space.” 

  
  
  


That seemed to hurt. 

  
  
  


“You can have space. Just let me know.” 

  
  
  


“I needed to be outside.” 

  
  
  


“You’ve said that before. You’ve never gone this far.” 

  
  
  


“It’s nothing like that. I don’t want to…” 

  
  
  


Die? 

Go numb? 

Shatter into pieces in the freshly fallen snow? 

  
  


Or did he? 

  
  


Not anymore. 

  
  


But this angered him. 

  
  
  
  


“You need to trust me.” 

  
  
  


Garak stared at him. 

  
  
  


“Well, do you trust me?” 

  
  
  


“Of course I do.” 

  
  
  


“Then why don’t you listen.” 

  
  
  


“I can do what I want.” 

  
  
  


“You can. I’m just worried.” 

  
  


He was. 

He could see that now. 

There was a better way to say it, it didn’t have to be this harsh. 

They didn’t have to argue about it. 

  
  


Had Garak thought he’d left for good? 

He must have. 

It didn’t make sense. 

  
  


Blurting out; 

  
  


“I wouldn’t, you know.” 

  
  
  


The other man was facing away, taking a break from this heated intensity, closing his eyes in an attempt to regain balance. Recharge. Get calm.

When he turned back he looked closed. Like stone, his face was cold. But it wasn’t empty, it was frozen with emotion. 

  
  
  


“Wouldn’t what?” 

  
  
  


“Leave. Like that, I wouldn’t just run off.” 

  
  
  


“I didn’t think that.” 

  
  


The hell he didn’t. 

  
  
  


“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” 

  
  
  


“It’s hard to believe, Doctor.” 

  
  
  


“Just trust me.” 

  
  
  


“It’s not that simple.” 

  
  
  


“I’m not saying it is, but I’m not just going to --” 

  
  
  


To what? 

To run? 

He had done that before. 

But that had been different. 

  
  
  


“I promise, I won’t. I’ll tell you, when the time is right.” 

  
  
  


Garak sighed in disbelief, but his shattered expressions were seemingly coherent, and he wasn’t fighting on the defence anymore. 

He’d opened his eyes. 

He was listening. 

  
  
  


“I’m going to hold you to that promise.” 

  
  
  


“I will keep it.” 

  
  
  


Now it was Julian’s turn to drill his gaze onto Garak, make him believe, make him convinced. 

He closed the space, dared to be near. 

Establishing trust, offering peace. 

  
  
  


“You have done too much for me to leave you hanging. I could never do that. I couldn’t.” 

  
  
  


“It’s not about what you promise, Doctor.” 

  
  
  


He stared at him, no judgement in his eyes. 

Only truth. 

Raw, rotten, and frightfully honest truth. 

  
  
  


“When it comes to it, it’s about what you do.” 

  
  
  


They stood in silence. 

They watched. 

Nothing was breaking and nothing was building, it was in stillness, in disbelief that they fought each other in silence. 

Until Julian nodded. 

He got it, he did. 

He understood. 

  
  


But he’d had no idea that it could mean this much. 

  
  
  


“I will tell you.” 

He simply said. 

  
  


And it was simple. 

To him it was. 

  
  


It took a moment for Garak to finally give in, and even when he did, he still kept his back straight. Instead of answering, he reached out. Repeated a motion they’d so often shared, placing his hand on Julian’s arm. 

He indulged in the touch, from under the layers and layers of jacket and shirt. 

And he looked. 

Into his eyes. 

Then he breathed, suddenly distressed. By what? 

It wasn’t dangerous anymore. 

That simple touch. 

It was enough. 

He moved on instinct, the hand stiff against his arm, he put his mitten wrapped fingers around that wrist and pulled it in tight, pulled himself in, more than anything. 

His brain shut off, his body rigid. 

He needed this. 

He needed it badly. 

Why had he wanted to be alone? 

To feel connected to this place? 

To feel the roots that tied him here? 

He didn’t need that. 

It was all here, right in front of him. 

Forceful.

Rough. 

Friction from textures as their bodies met each other, and he leaned in, lifting his head, inhaling this moment. 

Desperate to forgive. But even more to be forgiven. 

He was the one supposed to lean in,

But Garak did it for him. 

At first, their foreheads met. 

Their noses touched, and eyes closed. 

And they stood together in silence.

Rested, to mend a broken bond. 

This was enough. 

Enough for now. 

But his heart couldn’t stop its frantic beating, beneath all tissue, skin and bone. 

  
  
  
  


10.49

  
  
  


Face to face. 

Meeting in the bedroom. 

Julian was still, holding his position on the floor. 

He was stood with arms hanging by his sides, letting Garak take charge, in control of this moment. 

Peeling layer by layer from his shivering body. 

Slowly. 

Patiently. 

Big hands, unzipping his coat. Letting it fall to the ground and stay there, behind. 

Next was his shirt, going over his head. Brushing up against his face, his arms, falling to the side. 

Undershirt, the same motion. 

Bathing under the light. 

Pale and rugged. 

Next item, wind-proof bottoms, rolling off in a second. Undoing his fly, trousers falling down. He could manage himself. 

Get these things off his body. 

He was practically naked, except from his boxers. 

Stepping out of the piles of left-over fabric, he looked at the man standing in front of him. 

Calm, and somewhat distant. 

His gaze was burning. 

But he looked away. 

Wondering what it could mean. 

Worry, connection?

A fear of breaking him? 

Hands, so soft, trailing over his body. A careful touch, with the back of his hand. 

Then he left. 

Breaking their connection by looking for new clothes, and Julian was left by himself and the exposure. 

Naked. 

Warmth, but still shivering. 

Numbness and goosebumps. Traces of patches from wet clothing against his skin. 

All he had was one item, one useless piece of underwear. 

But somehow, he wanted to stay like this - open and honest. Almost in the nude. 

What else could he give?   
His body was in ruins. Battered and bruised, cold, hard, steely exterior. When he’d woken up in this bed, ten days ago, he’d been the same, a jigsaw puzzle. In the end, he’d always come back to that. 

Creaking footsteps.

Garak came back. 

He was offered a t-shirt in grey with long sleeves - put his arms above his head to let those hands roll it over him. The most delicate touch. There was certainly fear in it - but fear of what? A fear of loss, a fear of contact? 

He’d been the one in the wrong. Not completely, but he could take the blame. He’d rather be blamed than to have this hesitation. 

He wanted to be touched by security again. By strength and by power. 

Skin prickling as it was graced by cold fingers. 

Calloused hands. 

Working hands. 

Feeling them adjust, straightening the bottom, close to his hips. 

They’d been there before. 

They’d held him, in the shop. 

And now he missed that.    
Missed their presence. 

As they let go, he felt more empty. 

Given a pair of tapered trousers - too dressy for this occasion but it must have been the last ones he’d had, and they were warm, they’d been inside, he couldn’t complain. He put them on himself, and pulled the zipper, buttoned the top. 

The next layer, another jumper, in light blue, merino wool.

Arms up, asking for assistance. 

He didn’t need it. 

But he still asked. 

Just to feel it. 

Over his head, out to his wrists, down to his hips. 

The touch running up over his belly, over his chest, gripping his shoulders. More firm? 

Did he imagine that? 

He dared to look. 

There was no resentment anymore. 

There was just pity. 

And he hated that. Through all of this, he’d never asked for it. 

He could never ask for pity. 

That was punishment. 

Sympathy and sadness. Just wry, simple compassion. 

  
  
  


“Don’t feel bad for me.” 

  
  
  


Garak looked.

He examined. Every detail on his face. 

He stood in silence. 

Then he replied. 

  
  
  
  


“I don’t feel bad for you.” 

  
  
  
  


Something had changed. 

Something that was icy, and distant, it seemed to melt. 

  
  


“I see myself in you.” 

  
  
  


Skipping a beat. 

A hand, up to his neck, following gently. 

Indulge. 

Feel. 

This, this could be it. 

Swallow, hard. 

The frozen ice inside of his pores felt ever so present. 

Don’t run away from it. 

He had just what he wanted. So he remembered it. 

This new sensation. 

Bravery. 

Connection. 

Say something. 

Now. 

Just do it. 

Get rid of this. 

Get out of this. 

  
  
  


“Don’t touch me like that.” 

  
  
  


His hand flew up to grab Garak’s wrist - and it held it tight, with force, and conviction. 

He lead it up, into his hair, felt fingers grabbing the locks at the back, then down, over his chin, over his throat, over his chest. 

  
  
  


“Touch me like this.” 

  
  


Fully. 

Completely. 

With passion and force. 

They never broke their eye contact, but after a while, Julian had to let go - offer him something, see if he would take it. 

At first, he got no response. 

Continue. 

Continue, god damn it, don’t stop this. 

He was desperate. 

And then it came. 

More than ever. 

Over the jumper, down to his hips, under his shirt. 

That same touch. 

Feeling its way in, under his clothes. Upon his skin. 

Opened his mouth. An audible reaction, a draw of breath. 

Yes. Yes, this was it. 

This was what he wanted. 

Tracking his muscles, now with more force. 

More power, and more devotion. 

That fire was back. That fire from before, the one he’d been looking for, the one he wanted to see. It was within this man, somewhere inside. 

A smile - was that a smile? A risky smirk, and darkened pupils. 

Had he been waiting for this? Knowing Julian wanted it. Just waiting for the right time. 

Another breath. 

He felt drawn in, pulled in with force. 

_ Yes _ . 

Now it was his turn, grabbing for something, his hands now searching, up Garak’s back. 

They were so close. 

Much closer than they’d been outside, forehead to forehead, and nose to nose. 

Now this was real. 

This was forgiving. 

This was tearing and scratching and clawing under the surface - a surface he was tired of seeing and feeling, when he knew that he could just have this, because he could. And he wanted it, he wanted it so badly. 

Garak’s hand, holding his chin, holding it up and observing his face. What was he looking for? An opening? He could have it. 

He could have anything. 

_ Have me, have all of me. _

He closed his mouth, fed his body with anticipation. 

Do something,  _ please _ . 

He had offered. Now he was waiting. 

And Garak looked into his eyes, still with that smile, still with intention. Then he leaned it, holding his jaw, holding his hip, merging their bodies together. 

Faces together. 

Similar, but different - so completely different. 

This wasn’t a truce. 

This was pure, bloody need. 

And so they kissed. 

And it was soft. And warm. And it was honest and full of life and better than breathing. He closed his eyes and let it go, just let him move, on pure sensation - touching as much of that body as he could possibly get his hands on. Up his back, his spine, his shoulder blades and neck. 

Opened his lips. 

Deepened the kiss. 

Leaving the soft, craving more heat. 

Felt Garak smiling into it, making him want it more, and even further, inhaling breaths, giving his all. Fearless, raw. Consumed by grit. 

It didn’t matter. 

He wanted this. 

More than he thought. 

With all intimacy, this was their peak, and it was beautiful. It was pure. Just human need, like anything else.    
Like eating and sleeping, it was obvious that they would have this.    
  
He never wanted it to end, but he wanted to see. What this was, and what this meant - if anything, what he could have. Just a reaction, anything but fear.    
  
Just god, please. 

Anything but pity.    
  
When they finally parted, slowing down from this touch, he dared to open his eyes and go meet what was ahead. 

And he’d been right.    
  
It was relief. 

  
  


Not just for him, but for them both. 

  
  


Bright eyes just gleamed with fire, with desire and with pleasure. 

  
  


Thank god. 

His heart was beating. 

Thank god. 

This was received. It was just lust, it was just needed. 

  
  


And they relapsed. Onto each other, faces together,

Living, breathing and uniting in another kiss. 

  
  
  
  
  


15.33

  
  
  


Rolled up in bed. 

Without their layers. 

Just skin and bone, and useless wrappings. 

He was still bandaged, still dressed in something, that felt like nothing. 

The echo of another heart beating so close to his own. 

An arm over his ribs, hand on his chest, holding him tight. 

A rhythmic breath, all hot and misty, against his neck, against his skin. 

If he could relive a moment, he would choose this one. 

Not because of what he was feeling. 

What he was seeing. 

What he was hearing, or touching, or smelling. 

Because of its quiet, warming existence. 

The man adjusting, his other hand up to his hair, twirling curls and tugging softly. 

A strange feeling of satisfaction. 

He was warm, down to his core. 

Never like this before. 

Lips to his neck, lips to his shoulder. 

A shiver. 

Burning pleasure. 

Living like this, it was divine. 

Existing like this, in someone’s arms. Being forgiven. Being allowed. 

How could he ever dream of death when he’d had a taste of this? 

A man like him, a tired creature, a stubbly mess with dirtied skin. 

It wasn’t a question of deserving anymore. 

Beyond that reign, it didn’t matter. 

It was all he had. 

And he would grasp it. 

Keep it in his dirty hands for as long as he could. 

_ A week.  _

As long as he could. 

_ A week.  _

He would treasure it. 

Ribcages widening, expanding lungs. 

One breath. 

Two breaths. 

Synchronised beats. 

One after the other. 

The softest kisses, against his skin. 

His worn down body. 

It went to rest. 

And it finally would, after this long. 

As much as he’d slept, he’d never let go. 

But now he did. 

Pushed body back, tried to feel more, tried to get closer. 

There were no layers. 

There was just them. 

He closed his eyes, though the sun stood high. 

It didn’t matter. 

It could cast as many shadows as it wanted. 

He was sick and tired of shadows. 

There was no need to feel them anymore. 

Not when he had this. 

A single pulse. 

Beating as one. 

And giving him warmth. 

Closure. 

And tireless, endless peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless of thank yous to Syaunei for getting me through this chapter. It was probably the hardest one to write so far. 
> 
> We've reached a milestone, folks!


	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting.

05.03.2044

  
  


08.10 

  
  


Five days, counting the first. 

Waking up with an arm around his waist and a face nuzzling into the pillow next to his shoulder.

Heart beating, blood pumping, faster and harder. 

Hot. Sticky, sweat going down his back. Didn’t mind. Preferring this to the outside cold, even to the fresh air. 

Should he go up? Should he make breakfast? 

The thought was tempting, but so was staying in bed. 

In the warmth. 

Cozied up, next to this body. 

Present. 

Alive. 

A soft noise from the body behind. A quiet grunt. 

Sweet and gentle. 

Fingers running over the back of Garak’s hand. Entwining. Holding.

This wasn’t a dream. Out of all the things they’d done, he didn’t doubt this. 

Real. Scalding hot. Existing. 

  
  


_ I see myself in you _ . Explaining to his broken mind how they were still the same. Another level of understanding, another step they’d overcome. 

Shifting his body, another grunt from behind, he turned, shuffling his hips, to face the other side. 

Eyes closed, breathing softly. 

Light, in the open air. 

Followed the shadow running over his nose, his darkened eyelashes, the shape of his brow. His sharp, short wrinkles, by his eyes. 

Struck by a question about the man’s age - he’d never asked, liked to guess. There was a significant difference between them, and it wasn’t just experience. He was mature, and he was grown, but he had more years before he’d reach the official milestone of being a proper man. Whatever that meant. 

Garak was past it. Had the face to show it. Radiated wisdom, the kind of someone older. 

Exposure to hardship. Must be there, in the back of his head. All of the time. 

Showing, beneath his skin. 

  
  


An image to look at. So close, up front. 

Opened his eyes. Meeting in the middle. Caught off guard, embarrassed all of a sudden. 

Confronted by kindness. A gentle stroke, down his back. 

  
  


Licking his lips, opening his mouth. 

  
  


“How are you?” 

  
  


No “good morning”. Wasn’t needed, wasn’t important. How he was seemed to matter so much more. 

  
  


No reply, couldn’t get one out. 

  
  


A nod. It was enough. 

The other man smiled, and moved his hand. 

Up to his face. Touching his cheek, rough fingers stroking gently, like he was inspecting. Was he looking for something? 

The same wrinkle between his brows. Concentration upon the target. 

Made him warmer. Hotter. Hands shivering under the blanket. 

Garak closed his eyes. Let the hand fall, down to his chest. Land over his heart, looking for its rhythm. 

Never even. But always there. 

Now more than ever. 

It tugged, so gently inside. 

This was comfort. It was the midst of many moments where he’d wallowed in its glory. Letting it consume him, letting it nourish. 

Blue. Bright. Pupils dilating, adjusting to the dark. Curtains closed, sheltered from outside. 

Limited time, but he would enjoy it. Something new, emerging from under. Choices to make. 

Just not for now. 

Another time. When he didn’t have this; wasn’t nailed this body and the things it made him feel. 

If this was the end then he should really enjoy it. 

So he promised himself. 

Rattling, unsettling wilderness in his head. Let it sleep. Lay it to rest. 

Here now. Here in bed, with his thirst quenched and his limbs numb, 

and his heart beating to the sound of another’s. 

It was enough. 

God, it was good enough. 

  
  
  


12.42 

  
  
  


Cooking. Bare feet on the warm floor. Messy hair and dirty face, he would shower, at some point, but it somehow seemed irrelevant. 

  
  


Fried eggs and potatoes. Greasy and salty. Would fill him up, and ease his hunger. A pleasant patter from the pan and its content, its smell in the air - just enough for contentment. 

  
  


Scraping it up when it finally was ready, portions on two plates, neatly stacked on a tray. 

  
  


They ate in the living room, on the floor, next to the fire. Short conversations and clatter from the cutlery.

Finishing with a new record, Garak laughed at him as he devoured the meal. Ha hadn’t eaten since the night before, and he didn’t care how sloppy he looked. Needed to be done. Needed to get fuel into his body, quick, stock energy. 

  
  


“It’s just potatoes, my friend. I could have offered something else.” 

  
  
  


Apologetically, still chewing. 

  
  
  


“Well, it’s good enough for me.” 

  
  
  


It really was. 

Coming to life, breathing in the sunlight from the window - it was a pleasant morning, if it still could count as the morning. 

  
  


The other man cleaned up, he crashed on the floor. 

  
  


Leaning head, looking at the ceiling. A weird position, recurring it seemed, keeping him steady and in solid form. If his body could melt right now, it would. Spread into a pile of goo, seeping into the floorboards. 

Pleasant release. Complete relaxation. 

Shouldn’t be feeling this way. 

Impossible not to. 

  
  


Hearing the other man, walking in the hallway, out from the kitchen. 

  
  


“Are you going to the shop today?” 

  
  


Door swinging open, looking up towards the shadow. An up-side-down imagine of that same, frisky smirk - increasingly repeated, with much appreciation. 

He liked it. 

Seeing more of this man now, more than when he’d been taken care of. That side was soft, and warm and gentle. This side was playful, and mischievous. 

A flash. 

Last night. 

His strong touch. Over his chest, under his shirt. 

That had been Garak, with this smile. 

Spirited. No discretion, just direct. What he had wished for. 

What he had wanted. 

  
  


Beat. 

  
  


“I’m afraid I might have to.” 

  
  


Stroke of anxious hesitation, down his guts. 

Snapping him out. 

  
  


“You should stay at home.” 

  
  
  


Sitting up. 

  
  
  


“I want to come.” 

  
  
  


“I’ll only be gone for a while.” 

  
  
  


“I’ll keep you company.” 

  
  


Shot him a look. Not sure what it meant. 

  
  


“There is something I need to do. I have to go by myself.” 

  
  
  


Something. 

Vague. 

  
  
  


“I thought you trusted me.” 

  
  


That was bitter. 

Petty, and cold. Shouldn’t have said that. 

Surprise - Garak smiled. Like a switch, his eyes grew dark. Glittering in the light. 

  
  
  


“Julian,” 

  
  


Quick breath, climactic pause. “I care for you. Greatly...” 

  
  


One step in. 

Sitting up, heart beating. Waiting for the conclusion with anticipated breath. 

  
  
  


“... But I don’t trust anyone. And neither should you.” 

  
  
  


And he was gone. 

Left with a series of noises, keys in the door and a push right after it. 

  
  


Julian was sat. 

Face beat with frozen emotions he didn’t know how to express. 

An echo of the man still remaining in the room, his cryptic words and passive smile.

Feeling cheated, 

Growing numb. 

He turned to himself for comfort. 

  
  
  


19.57 

  
  


Not home yet. Just silence. 

Taking that shower, finally, well needed. Undressing slowly in the pale yellow light - staring at his own skin in the small, bathroom mirror. Battered and bruised, full with promise. Getting better. Day by day. 

Fingertips running over soft and prickly skin. Over his chest, over his collarbones. 

Stepping out of trousers, socks and boxers. A pile of leftovers, a snake losing its skin. 

Naked. Freed. 

Chose to be here. To cleanse these dead cells off of his body. 

Stepping into the tub, cold painted metal against his bare feet. Turning on the tap, feeling the light stroke of water against fingers. It burned, without being hot. Going gentle, finding its place, stepping into it - patch by patch, it covered. 

Head up. Facing the stream. Pouring over his face, over his nose, eyes, lips. Drip by drip, stroke by stroke. Washing away all the sin from before. 

The best kind of sin. 

Recharge for more. 

Wanted more. The touch under his shirt, it still burned, like a shadow, leaving traces up his back. The cold hands and their security. 

They’d been rougher on command. 

  
  


_ Touch me like this.  _

And he had. 

  
  


Woke the heat from within, from his guts and his heart - and his groin. Spreading out, to his toes and his fingertips. 

Untouched patches not yet heated by water, were pulsing by the memory. 

He’d opened his mouth in release, mimicked it now - water seeping in through his lips, eyelids squint, remembering, reliving. 

  
  


Feeling good. Warm and clear, filled with memory. 

  
  


Reaching out, grabbing a bottle, emptying its liquid into his cupped, open palm, lifting it up into his hair, stepping out of the stream. 

Rubbing. Roughly. Strand by strand, foam and fragrance of cleanliness and sanitation. Pushing it in, down to his scalp, nails digging away all dirt. 

Washing the hands. Lifting another bottle. Same procedure, over his body. 

Cold and sticky, foamy and bubbly. 

Dig. Dig. 

Dirt off his skin. 

Peel it away. Rejuvenating, restoring - bad memories scrubbed away, welcoming new ones. 

More touch. 

Just like last night. 

It would happen again. Couldn’t go another night, knowing that it wouldn’t. 

Of all the people he’d touched before, he never felt the pure need of doing only that - never starved of the touch, never drawn to it like this. Coincidental, perhaps it was - the trauma, the stress, and this man here to soothe it. 

Welcoming it, God knows that it was working. 

It hadn’t been nice. Hadn’t been sweet and gentle, wanted more than that - wanted it to be different. Enveloped in caring and comfort, he needed this awakening. 

Understanding it better. 

Outside, it was the cold. Icicles through his breath. Piercing lungs with steam and frost, prickling skin with exposure to coldness. 

Ran away from it once, welcomed it now. 

And he’d had his share of the warmth in this man - he’d seen traces of his bitterness, and teased it out. Demanding more roughness and rejoiced in the results. 

When he’d pushed him in, all he could do was gasp. 

When he’d touched him. 

Kissed him. 

  
  


Made his body fall. Biting his lip, go under his shirt. 

  
  


It was more powerful than the icy wind. 

Thinking of the eyes. They could have eaten him alive. He’d seen how he’d wanted him, and it filled him with power - god, how he’d wanted it. 

How he still wanted it. 

Breathless now, under the stream. Body pounding, muscles tensing, heat like water, blood boiling, filled with it, consumed by it. 

On pure memory, he was a ticking bomb. 

Rushing, spinning. 

Wanting the touch - couldn’t do it himself, it wouldn’t be satisfying. Not enough. 

Should he? Touch himself. There. 

No. 

Not now.

But he was alone. 

One chance. 

Save it for later. 

Spinning, beating, pounding. Under the stream. A hand falling down… Giving in? 

Keeping it in. 

Wash yourself. Wash it off, leave it for later. 

Took the shower handle off its hold, gripping it firmly as it washed off the lather. Renewed. Freshened up. Drips like pearls, running down his shape. Distracting a body filled with excitement. 

Let it go, let it go. Wash it off. 

Breathe. 

Beat. 

Stepping out. 

Grabbing the towel. 

Brushing it roughly, wrapping him up. 

Lie to oneself. 

Steam on the mirror. Wiping it off, the back of his hand, meeting two brown eyes with dilated pupils. Dark hair, in a wild mess. 

Looking more alive than ever. 

Adrenaline rushing. 

Shadows of Garak’s hands still moving across his body. 

Memorized, in his cells. 

Water dripping off the sharp, peaky curls. 

Deep breath. 

This place did something to him. 

Didn’t know what it was. 

Just how it felt. 

Crawling, and creeping and itching from within. Moving on instinct, feeding his primal brain. 

  
  


Control. 

Needed it back. 

  
  


Looking at the shadow in the mirror. Meeting his eyes, staring back at him. Black, and deep. 

Cheeks slightly sunken, rosy from the heat. 

Neck long and straight. 

Control. 

  
  


He’d be home soon. 

He’d be back. 

  
  


Getting darker outside, for every minute that passed. 

He would wait. 

  
  


He would get dressed, dry his hair, go out to the doorstep, sit down and wait. 

Decision was made. 

As much as his body was screaming for rest, for shelter, for release - he wouldn’t give it. 

He would wait. 

  
  
  


21.09 

  
  


Pitch black. 

Colder and colder. 

When the flash from the torch could be seen between the trees, he’d been sat outside for an hour. 

Shadows and patterns, the sound of his steps - the man pulsed through the snow in an automatic flow, repeated and simple. 

Reaching the step, there was a break in the motion. Slight hesitation, flickering light. 

Deeper voice. 

Darker voice. 

Slower, more careful. Reeking with exhaustion, but hints of gratification. 

  
  
  


“How long have you been waiting?” 

  
  
  


Shrugging, ambiguous. 

No point in arguing. 

No need for a scolding. 

And a clock was ticking inside of his head. 

  
  
  


“I’m sorry… I got caught up.” 

  
  
  


“It’s okay.” 

  
  
  


Then a thought. Getting back, from before. 

  
  
  


“Doing what?” 

  
  
  


That same look. 

  
  
  


“Cleaning up. Let’s go inside.” 

  
  
  


Squinted. 

It was a lie. 

  
  
  


“You weren’t.” 

  
  


Following him in, like a dog after its owner. 

Shedding outerwear, hanging them up next to the door. 

Still waiting, intensely for an answer. 

  
  
  


“You don’t need to know.” 

  
  
  


“What if I want to?” 

  
  
  


Beat. 

  
  


The man turned, his cheeks still rosy from the cold, eyes adjusting to the dark, but piercing into Julian’s. 

  
  
  


“What are you doing?” 

  
  
  


Stand straight, meet his gaze. 

Heart beating. Frantically. 

  
  
  


“I’m making you trust me.” 

  
  


A look of surprise, of callous calculation. 

Took one step in, closing the space keeping them apart. 

  
  


“By invading my privacy?” 

  
  


Not accusing, just a question. A genuine inquiry over this backfiring plan. 

Standing up tall. 

Not daring to give in. 

  
  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


Fighting back. 

No treble in his voice, no weakness to show. 

  
  
  


Garak raised one eyebrow, a smug smile spreading over his lips. 

  
  
  
  


“And you think that’s going to work?” 

  
  
  


So bright. 

So cold. 

  
  
  


Secure. 

  
  
  


“I know it will.” 

  
  
  


The last of their distance, disappearing. Garak close, up next to him, hand on his hip, his face - almost touching. 

Quickly, by surprise, releasing a gasp but swallowing it hard. Keeping his pride - fighting this back. 

It was important. 

_ Trust me.  _

Staring into his eyes. 

  
  


Blinked, determined. 

Body shaking, keeping it calm. Swallowing. 

  
  


Blood rushing back. Reminding him of the shower. Of his memories. How hot they made him. 

Wanted this. 

Didn’t care if it ate him alive, bringing the fever, killing his lungs. If it was circumstantial - still wanted it, still craved it. 

Blinking, looking at the man. 

Looking at his face. At his eyes, his nose, his lips. His brows, his hair, a hand on his chest. 

  
  
  


“Kiss me,” 

  
  


Mumbled. Under his breath. 

Nothing breaking, nothing damaged. 

  
  


Garak smiled. 

Gave him an answer. 

  
  
  


“No,” 

  
  


Tipped his head, stepping back. 

  
  


Breath stopped. 

Blood cut off. 

Ice in his veins. 

Emptying his mind. 

“It’s your turn, Doctor.  ” 

  
  
  


A command. 

A simple, treacherous, and beautiful command. 

And god, how he followed. 

  
  


Shooting a hand, up to his cheek, pulling him back to where they’d just been. Joined together, hands over each other, touching and feeling and enjoying the moment. 

It was clear, and it was whole. 

And they kissed, once again. 

Full of fire. 

Full of heat. 

When his lips were numb and his body weak, he still couldn’t manage to stop. 

He wanted it whole. Like he’d thought of it before. But Garak was gentle, and pushed him aside, stealing one last peck before placing his hands between them. 

  
  
  


“Are you sure that you —“

  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


Didn’t have to think. 

Just replied.  As clear as day, he knew what he wanted. 

  
  
  


“You need to be certain, my dear.” 

  
  


A nod. 

  
  
  


“I am. I am sure.” 

  
  


Piercing his gaze, into the other’s. Channeling strength. Breathing with life. 

Everything he’d thought of, all day when he was gone - he sent it through, made sure that it was seen, that it was known. 

It was clear. 

  
  


There it came. The sweet smirk, the glint in his eye - an approving nod. 

Garak was warm. Gentle, and kind. And still, he touched, pulled him in, close enough. 

Gripping his hips. 

Honest and raw.

Deep voice. Soothing, smoothly. 

  
  


Every word, every sound. 

It was everything Julian wanted to hear. 

  
  


“Let’s go to bed.” 


	12. 12

06.03.2044

  
  


07.32 

  
  
  


Shivering, in bed. 

  
  


Catching up with emotions, blurry memories coming back. One by one, they trickled in. Heated up. 

Slightly uncomfortable, looking up - seeing a cheek, a neck - head on top of a chest, arm swung around seeking comfort and warmth. 

Garak on his back, facing the side, breathing gently. 

He clung onto him like a child to its toy. Seeping him in. Enjoying the stillness. 

Imagery from hours before, playing before his eyes. 

  
  


Crashing onto bed. Hands and fingers twirled, seeking pleasure, seeking touch. Rubbing his body as close to the other as he possibly could, proving its effect, mumbling in the other’s ear. Losing a shirt. 

Losing another. 

As eager to continue as ever before, but Garak was patient and slow in response. Following his muscles with fingertips, so gently. Teasing with anticipation. Growing tired of waiting, he’d rolled onto his lap and stroked his back - pulling in, pulling close. 

The softest break in the smooth, even skin. Bulky scarring, hills and mountains covering his bones. Following the shoulder blades, down like an arrow. Couldn’t see it, but could feel it. Tracing it down, without a thought, just to know it, even closer. 

Meeting his eyes. Ragged breath, explaining in quick words. 

Fire. A mission, a long time ago. 

Not unlike scales, his skin was tainted. 

A scarred tapestry that wouldn’t go away.

Suddenly sorry that he had pushed so far. 

Being intrusive. 

As always. 

This skin was a map full of memory and pain, not recent but haunting. 

And it changed the way that they looked at each other. 

Already suspecting there were many similarities, this proved it - past that point, the physical scars. They were mental too, he knew that. 

Much like his own. 

So it grew gentle, and kind. Passion put aside, tickling underneath, but most importantly, understanding. 

A human touch, not a doctor’s, but a person’s, continued to trace and explore. Not much changed in the other man’s eyes, they accepted. 

Allowed the touch. 

The simplest explanation was enough. 

Their kisses were poignant and scattered, melting into a sea of powerless struggle. 

Falling back onto the pillows, allowing steam and adrenaline to fizzle out, they engaged in the most careful touching. 

The kind that never left, 

even when he drifted off, 

clinging onto one another. 

Secretly wishing for release that hadn’t come. 

It hadn’t mattered then, but it hung in the air, waiting to burst. 

Never had. 

He’d drifted off. 

Even thought it was early. 

It was okay. He still had time. 

  
  


Now here, this morning. Sunlight seeping in from the distant window. 

Body pounding by the thought of the memory - and boiling blood from before, in the bathroom, it emerged. 

A natural reaction. 

Shouldn’t be embarrassing, but it was. 

Squeezed together, as they were. 

Staying completely still. 

Thinking good thoughts. As good as they could be. The arm wrapped around him, its weight over his ribs, its hand hanging heavily on the other side -- 

Movement, so still, readjustment against discomfort. 

Suddenly, a squeeze. Instead of separating, Garak pulled him closer. 

Wrapped him up in two arms, keeping him close and restrained from escape. No option of running away from this, having to indulge. 

Served him right. 

A hormonal catastrophe, brought out by all this misery. Suppressed emotions he’d hid for so long, their constant shuffling and scoffing from within - he welcomed them now, might as well let them out, why not? Why not let them? 

They were here.

He was safe.

This man brought out the worst in him. 

Couldn’t fool himself. 

Still hot, still sticky, affected by this touch - had a feeling he was being punished for it. Take that punishment. Do so for himself, and for Garak.

Moving, faces closer. Looking up - tracing his jaw, studying its strength, up to his cheek. 

Leaning in, placing one kiss. 

Placing another.

And another. 

Up to the cheekbone, an audible reaction - a tired, gravely chuckle. 

Couldn’t believe that he was here. In this bed, with this man. So busy running without thought, losing control over mind, he’d somehow ended up here in this place; seeing this. Feeling this. 

Communicating mostly through physical touches and intuition. A mad, misplaced intuition. 

Tilting the head, meeting his eyes. 

Garak smiled. 

Looking content. 

How had he done this? 

Managed to get them both here. 

A stroke through his heart of sudden hesitation, a beating from his skull, swallowing roughly. 

Wanted to say something. 

Lips not following. 

A hand around him moved up towards his neck, where it had rested many times before, holding it gently - to ground, and support. Fingers brushing, stroking his hair. 

Only one touch, it unhinged. Found a lock that shouldn’t be opened. 

Forbidden.

But wanted more of that. 

Wanted endless contact, endless touch. 

It arose, again. The heat. 

Slowly, he let his fingers trail up the naked torso - feeling every centimeter of softness and warmth. Uneven in places, of scarring and bone, following them patiently, tracking their history. 

Didn’t feel intrusive. Felt whole, and sacred. 

Up, over his chest. Brushing his collarbone, over his shoulder, over his arm. 

Could feel the goosebumps, roughing up the smooth - devoured the pleasantry in affecting this man, to the point he gave him shivers. 

Further down now, circling over his ribs, over his stomach, down to his hips. Playing softly with his fingertips, searching out the bone. Investigating. 

This body was his to explore. To touch, and to give back to. 

He wanted it badly. His blood let him know, rushing quickly into places where he could feel it beat. Inside his veins, it pulsed, thickened his thoughts. Left without focus. 

All surroundings were dense. Felt heavy. Pulled down. 

Gravity. 

Wanted to get on top of it. Wanted to get back to where they had been before. 

But Garak wouldn’t let him. 

Relieving his previous hold, the man placed his hand over Julian’s, stopping it, carefully. He guided it back to his own body, placed it over his own naked chest, much smaller, much colder, and far from as satisfying. 

From there, he continued. Mimicked the touch that Julian had practiced, followed his chest and his collarbones, out his arms - down his side, down to his hips, to the fabric covering -- 

Small pulses of adrenaline, sensory so strong. 

Feeling like a ritual, a mutual response. 

His turn to feel the effect, feel the nerves jolting anxiously upon excitement. 

The touch of warm lips, against his ear, breathing gently, placing kisses - so small, sending a shiver - the best kind. 

Trickling. Tickling. Evolving into pleasure. 

  
  


“Do you still want this?” 

Soft whisper, breathy and quietly, still sleep in his voice. 

  
  


Opened his mouth to reply, still no words - what could he say? 

Wasn’t enough to express how much. 

How much he could beg for it. 

Endlessly. 

_ Touch me.  _

Must have known that, given his arousal, hanging over him like a cloud.

Haunting him. 

Heating him. 

Nodded, as discreetly as he could, afraid of losing this sensation through this much too obvious eagerness. 

It didn’t disappear. 

It evolved. 

Fingers continued to travel, they trickled down from bone to bone, muscle and thigh, inside, and up - more shivers, rushes, tension releasing - no headache, no fear. No coughing and wincing, just plain pleasure jolting through his body. 

Lighting the fire. Fanning it, feeding it. 

  
  


_ Touch me.  _

  
  


Continue. 

He could regain his control if he only could have this. 

Once would be enough, then he could get back to his misery. 

Just once. 

Playing with the fabric, moving up 

  
  


“Touch me --” 

  
  


\-- touching him. Touching him there. Where he was ready and hard, and completely out of control. Stroking, gently at first. Moving his hips up to meet him. Showing how much, exactly how much he wanted this. 

Should be obvious. 

It was obvious. 

Could he not feel that? 

This touch was all he had longed for. 

And he could feel Garak on his side, his body pressed hard against his own, his excitement - it was there too, he was moving too, together in unison, brought out from all this resting and waiting and being around each other. 

Had been around each other for too long. Had touched, and felt, and offered this pleasure. In its own way, it had always been there. In conversation, and in silence, and in simple, innocent offerings. 

Now it was complete. 

It was Garak’s hands, searching its way inside his boxers, under the fabric, onto his skin. 

Onto himself. 

Holding him in his hand. 

Hard, and ready. 

He was ready. Mouth opened by itself, sound escaping, into the room, a voice that didn’t even sound like his own. Much stronger, and breathier. 

Gasping. 

Pleadingly. 

Fingers were resting. Wishing them to move, to grip. 

Slowly as usual. 

An encouraging voice, whispering gently into his ear. Words melting, couldn’t hear them properly, the essence was enough, squirming and moving with as much strength as it took for the other man to finally start giving. 

Gripping. 

Fingers. 

Sticky, and wet. 

Kissing down his neck.

Holding him in his hand. 

Wrecked by nerves, and their constant vibrations, still slow and patient but god, so much better than waiting and waiting and waiting. 

Pushing his body, a hand reaching out to grab whatever he could find, sheets and blankets, squeezing them tight. 

Moving. 

Giving in to it. 

Rushes, rushes. 

Heartbeat. 

Fevered. 

Building and building.

Stroking, now quicker. 

Whispers. 

  
  


“Do you want this?” 

  
  


“I want this --” 

  
  


Drunkenly, off this drug. 

Wheezing between his teeth. 

Muscles all tense, all flexed, from his hands to his feet - one hand to Garak’s neck, gripping it firmly, the little power he had left. 

Rhythm. 

A pattern. Unpredictable, but it would strike. 

Pleasure came rushing, one breath at a time. 

Wanted to be touched more. Wanted to be touched everywhere. 

To be exposed. 

To be stimulated. 

Everywhere. 

Every single patch of his body that waited, untouched. 

  
  
  


“Yes,” he breathed, repeatedly. 

  
  


Lips, biting and nibbling down the side of his neck. 

Collar bones. Sternum. 

For a second, there was a brief pause - before he could complain, he was straddled over his thighs. 

Mirrored, from the night before. 

Except he didn’t have the upper hand. He was down, pushed into the mattress, desperate for release. 

And he loved this. 

Loved his weight, his continuous kisses, moving quicker further down, until he kissed a spot so close to his crotch he almost whimpered from above. 

Could sense that smile. 

Could spot it down there, and hated it as much as he loved it. Infuriating. A firing pulse, hands to his side. 

And Garak took him in. 

His breath before it touched, so warm and persistent. 

Hot, and wet. 

Lips closing in. Hand at his shaft, another on his hip. 

But all he could feel was the warmth of his mouth, consuming him completely. 

The sharpest stroke of pure pleasure he could ever remember experiencing. 

Pushing him out of himself. 

Skin feeling alien. 

Body feeling numb, except not, it was alive, it had power. 

Swallowed into a world where everything was blurry, and his voice was not his own. The sounds that came out of his mouth were not his. 

They were releases of breaths, straight reactions to enjoyment. Excitement. 

Had never felt pleasure like this. 

Had never been with someone like this. 

Men, yes, but no man like this. 

Never been taken with such heat and such confidence, so much wanting, boiling and bubbling, from both sides - knew it wasn’t just him, it was them both. 

Equal measure.

Equal pleasure. 

Both hands, now on his hips. 

Gripping them tight. 

Didn’t dare look down.

Couldn’t do it, couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t see what was happening - too busy feeling, enjoying, sucking every living second out of it. 

It built and it built, stacked up until he couldn’t take it anymore. 

It ran underneath his skin, exposed it to the cold, but couldn’t feel it. 

Could only feel heat. 

Was completely devoured by what this one man could make him feel. 

What his hands, and mouth was doing to his body. 

His perfect movement. 

His strained lips. 

Hot mouth. 

Hard hands. 

A jolt of pleasure, there it came, 

There, 

Feeling it bubbling, 

Everything inside of him, 

Build, build, 

Gasping, 

Rumbling,

No control - couldn’t stop it -- 

Wouldn’t ever, it felt too good, just unrefined, pure pleasure, and it was inside of him, 

And it took him. 

Completely. 

A wave rushing over from each sensitive spot, and out through his limbs, gasping for breath, squirming by the touch. 

Devoured him, and sunk him into a deep, nonexistent void. 

All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. 

A tingle. 

A noise. 

A shock, through all of his body. 

His echoing moan, still hanging in the room. 

Then another breath, joining in. Audibly affected. His weight over his body, and it lay still, just where it was. 

Opening his eyes. 

Staring at the ceiling. 

All of his blood, rushing back into places. 

Arms and legs resting limp against the mattress. 

Every part of his body still shivering from its release. 

He was sticky, and sweaty, and completely flayed open. Laid bare. 

Defined by what just had taken place. 

Couldn’t believe it. 

But could still feel it. 

Tickling. Numb. 

Still breathing harshly when Garak moved. 

Reacting shaken upon disconnecting, but quickly soothed by the warmth of a hot and sticky palm. 

Crashing down, right by his side. 

Breathing together, in silence. 

It felt familiar. Like before, when he had spiraled onto the floor and these hands had held him straight. Comforted him back into what then had been the present. Now they were here, giving him this - doing so much more than he ever thought they’d do for him. 

For how long had he wanted this? 

It didn’t matter. 

He now had it. 

He had felt it. 

It wasn’t over, in the aftershock of release. 

It wasn’t as simple as that. 

There was something else. 

Something on the other side of it. 

Wanted to create that too. 

Wanted to make this man feel the same thing he had just felt. 

Maybe not capable of repeating it on the same scale but god, he would try. 

Try his hardest to make him shiver. To see him trail off under his touch. 

Turning head. 

Meeting eyes. 

More gleaming and full of life than he’d ever seen them before. 

This time, his turn to smile. As menacing and mischievous as this man usually did. 

It curled up his lips like it had always been there, waiting to come out. 

Cheeks red. 

Neck pale. 

Lips puffed by their action. 

It was beautiful, and raw. 

Real, like all before. 

But now, in the aftermath, this seemed to matter even more. 

How rough they were. 

How hot and cold and broken down. 

That’s what resonated. 

Could never forget this.

Promised himself that. 

Promised his heart, and his stupid, callous brain. 

Moving in close, re-initiating contact, making sure all was well. 

Rested there. 

Like he used to rest. But not empty, and not alone. 

The same bed.

The same house. 

With a completely different value. 

  
  


Four days. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's starting.   
Let me know what you think.


	13. 13

07.03.2044

  
  


11.23 

  
  


Sat at the table, looking at the man cooking. Clothed back, arms on either side, stirring and moving with perfect contentment. 

Sleeves rolled up. 

Flannel shirt. 

Broad shoulders. 

Neck tilting forwards. 

A curl of black hair, falling decoratively to the side, as if planned. Hand following up, smoothing it back into position. 

Repeated. 

Stepping to the side. 

Requesting something from the cupboard. 

Obliging. 

Picking up a can of tomatoes, a cube of vegetable stock. 

Placed it on the counter. 

Brief contact, hand on his arm, a thank you. 

Sat back down.

Watched. 

The melodious trail of a saxophone, playing quietly in the corner. The cover of a record, laid on the bench, sleek and black and glossy. 

A quartet. 

Only half of them playing. Light tinker from the piano, and the echo of the wind instrument, uniting into one. 

The clearest of tones. 

Raspy and lively. 

Relaxed shoulders. 

This was his everyday life, what had been before.

Before he arrived. 

Consecutive movements from arms and hands, working away to the sound of tranquility. 

Pot on the stove. Adding item after item. 

No singing. Only melody. 

Atmosphere so thin and light, dimmed like candlelight. 

But it was gray outside. 

And cold inside. 

Steam from the stove. 

Fogging up the windows. 

A specifically exquisite passage of piano. 

Round, full base notes, filling up his ears. 

Stillness. 

Serenity. 

Easy swaying, forwards and back. 

Stirring, wooden spoon, tapping against stoneware. 

Not remembering ever seeing something like this at home. 

The complete composure. Equanimity. The past, the future, of no importance. 

Just here. 

Them. 

Him. 

Moving, tinkering, serving. 

Calm and common. 

The care he performed. 

Covering what was there, behind. 

A riddle. 

Grains of truth, dropped every now and then. 

Just enough. 

The guessing game. 

The tapestry of scars. 

The calm exterior, the man who cared. 

Who was he? 

A caretaker. 

A friend. 

A lover. 

All of them, in his heart. Filling the void of what he’d lost. 

What he’d never had. 

Knowing it was all too good. It couldn’t be like this. 

But how he wanted it. 

Sure that it would collapse. Implode. And when it did, he would have sucked every living second out of it, enough to be able to survive the fall. 

That he could touch him and move him, and feel him - playing with fire, so close to getting burnt, it was enough. 

So burn, then. 

Burn him alive. 

Moved, from the seat. 

To the counter. 

To the outline of the strong, well built body. 

So close. 

Millimeters between. 

Breathing him in. 

Leaning in. 

Forehead to his neck. 

Still moving, but slower. Aware of the presence. 

A hand on his arm, another on his chest. 

A soft embrace. 

Just contact, just touch. 

Not a caretaker, or friend, or lover. 

More. 

Give him more. 

Give him everything before it’s over. 

Stillness. 

Just music. 

Body contact. 

Chest against his back. 

Feeling every twitch, every micromovement. 

Syncing with his breath. 

Up, and down. 

Meditative. 

Solemn. 

There. Present. 

Rib cage expanding. Sinking. Pausing. Expanding. Sinking. Pausing. 

Alive. 

  
  
  
  


17.10 

  
  
  


The dress laid out, over his knees. Flowing over, across the floor, the train pinned up over the workbench. Hadn’t gotten any attention the past few days, but it was out in the open now. Taken care of. 

Seemed to be a project of great care and patience. Should have been used long ago, still wasn’t finished. Deliberately, like an old memory one didn’t want to leave behind. Therapeutical. 

  
  


“Do you think you’ll ever finish it?” 

  
  


A faint smile, working hands. 

Stroking the silk, ever so softly. 

  
  


Silence. 

  
  
  


“It was finished a long time ago.” 

  
  
  


Looked like it was the truth. 

Couldn’t get any more beautiful than it already was. 

Imagining a body, dressed in it, a thin, tall female figure. The long sleeves, the open neck, tucked in at the waist. 

  
  
  
  


“Then why haven’t you left it?” 

  
  
  


A simple question, with no simple answer. 

  
  


Sunset painting the room. 

Yellow light, throwing shadows against the walls. 

Patterns on wood. 

Patterns on the floor, the rug, the furniture. 

Him on the sofa, restlessly waiting. 

  
  
  


“Some things you learn to live with, Doctor.” 

  
  
  


Knew that. 

Knew what it meant. 

  
  


Was confronted by memory every living second, could never forget, and would never. 

Some things he would have to learn to live with. 

  
  
  


“Are you going to send it to her?” 

  
  
  


Scoff. 

  
  
  


“It won’t be possible.” 

  
  
  


“Why not?” 

  
  
  


“She’s not with us anymore.” 

  
  
  


Beat. 

Frozen. 

Could only mean one thing. 

  
  
  


“She died?” 

  
  


A passive nod. 

One simple motion. 

Hands continuing to dance over the fabric. 

Still working away. 

  
  
  


“How?” 

  
  
  


Beat. 

They stopped. 

Cold as ice. 

Broken from the trance. 

  
  


Just a look. A simple, strong look. 

Don’t ask anything else. 

Couldn’t help it. 

  
  
  


“Casualty.” 

  
  
  


He’d never said. 

He’d said something else -- 

  
  
  


“And her father?” 

  
  
  


“I already told you.” 

  
  
  


Helsinki. 

That’s what he’d said. But never… 

  
  


Miles away. 

  
  
  


“No more questions, Doctor.” 

  
  


Still cold. 

Usually not like this, usually pronounced with care. Not just a title. 

He’d broken something. 

Knowing how, but not what. 

Tread carefully. 

  
  
  


“I’m sorry. I just don’t know…” 

  
  
  


“You don’t have to.” 

  
  
  


Grim. 

Sombre. 

Had every right to be. 

It was okay, take this punishment. 

  
  
  


“You’re right.” 

  
  
  


But he wanted to know. 

  
  


Time was running out. 

  
  


Three. 

  
  
  


Silence. For minutes, he sat, watching. 

  
  


Broke it eventually. 

  
  


“I’ve been lucky, so far.” 

Offered this. The truth. “Everyone I know is safe.” 

  
  
  


“It’s different up here.” 

  
  
  


How many times had he said that? 

Knew this. It was different up here. 

People were fighting to stay alive. Regardless of their own feelings, they had to. 

His own country was passive, just protecting, it wasn’t the same. Yet he’d given himself to this cause, wholeheartedly. 

To save what was left. 

To save people. 

Different up here. 

More loss. 

  
  
  


“I know. I feel it.” 

  
  
  


The man picked up scissors, snipped the thread in one, small motion. 

  
  
  


“You feel it. But you can’t know. I’ve been in the heart of it.” 

  
  


Breathlessly listening. 

Waiting for more. 

  
  


“For long. This hasn’t been sudden, we could feel the occupation before it happened. Worked against it.” 

  
  


But not hard enough. 

They had still been invaded. 

Nothing had been strong enough. No help, no brotherhood, tearing down borders. 

And he was next. 

All of the north would be gone. 

  
  


“People tried to run away. We stopped them. If people left, there would be nothing remaining. We couldn’t let it happen again, so we didn’t. We fought. All in vain.” 

  
  


Couldn’t just sit and listen anymore.

Had to say something. 

  
  


“It wasn’t in vain.” 

  
  


“No? Then why are we here?” 

  
  


Swallowing. Hard. 

Didn’t understand politics. Didn’t want to. Just wanted to do what was best. 

But it wasn’t that easy, it wasn’t black or white.

  
  
  


“You stood up against it.” 

  
  
  


“We turned like the wind. One second in, and we were disintegrated. Couldn’t resist them. We didn’t have a choice but to follow.” 

  
  
  


“You’re not fighting us, not directly. There is nothing that you could have done.” 

  
  
  


“Not everyone feels that way, Doctor.” 

  
  
  


“I do.” 

  
  
  


“You’re one man.” 

  
  
  


“I’m not the only one.” 

  
  
  


“There aren’t many like you.” 

  
  
  


“More than you think. We mourn for you.” 

  
  
  


“You don’t know anything. You are sheltered from whatever has happened in the past, it had been put away, taken care of...“ 

  
  


This harshness and anger, it stung, and it hurt. 

It was well placed. 

Truth. 

The man continued. “Why aren’t you helping us?” 

  
  


“We are.” 

  
  


“You are fighting us.” 

  
  


“We have to protect ourselves…” 

  
  


“And how many of us have you killed in the process?” 

  
  


Sinking into the floor. A deep, dark pit. 

It was true. 

All of it was true. 

  
  


Silence. 

Staring. 

Cold, and dead. 

Alarmingly real, the rock hard truth. 

  
  


Heartbeats. Uneven. 

Echoing inside his ears. 

  
  
  


“Too many.” 

  
  


Whispered. 

  
  


Death everywhere. 

No one had expected it. 

Pacts were broken, there was no help to be found. On either side there was misery. Selfish to think that they were equal when they weren’t. 

This country had suffered more than his own. 

His home was run by fear. Fear of breaking, or losing the history of long lost peace. So selfishly proud of it that they’d forgotten their brothers. 

They had lost. 

And soon, he would too. 

  
  


Nothing would be the same again. 

  
  


Would never understand it. Not even when he was in the middle could he untangle it. 

  
  


“I can’t defend it.” 

  
  


Being honest. 

  
  


Something softened. 

Anger and frustration lingering in his gaze, but he was emptied from its passion. The man seemed tired. 

Not accusing. 

Not anymore. 

  
  
  


“You’re not defending it.” 

  
  
  


“I know. I don’t want to.” 

  
  
  


His heart rate unbalanced. His skin feeling tight. Itchy, and uncomfortable. 

  
  
  


“You are young. You follow one side, and you pledge your life to it, but it’s never as easy as that. They want you blind to the circumstances.” 

  
  
  


Felt patronised, but took it. 

Took anything at this point. 

  
  


His own feelings weren’t important, not in a matter like this. 

  
  
  


“I’m not blind. Not anymore.” 

  
  


Thought there would be resistance. 

But there was none. 

Searching, scanning. Cutting him open. 

  
  


Met by unexpected patience and calm. 

  
  
  


“No. And it’s not your fault.” 

  
  
  


“You never said it was.” 

  
  
  


“I know. But I implied. It’s not you... “ 

  
  
  


“Don’t apologise. You should be angry.” 

  
  


He should. 

Didn’t know what he’d seen, what he’d gone through. 

How many he’d lost, how many more there would be. 

Unless they weren’t already gone. 

Why else would he be out here, distanced? 

  
  


“Anger does not matter anymore, my dear.” 

  
  


Not Doctor. 

Dear. 

His. 

  
  
  


“There’s no point in being angry. I’ve left that behind. 

All that matters is what happens next.” 

  
  
  


20.35

Haunted by their conversation. 

By how foolishly partial he had been. Never thought of the other side. Never seeing what was broken. 

Garak had moved on. 

Probably always thinking about it. Tired of the pity. Had every day to process it. 

Wasn’t easy to deal with. 

Felt ashamed. 

The other man must have known. He followed him with his eyes, watched his clenched jaw and nervous fiddling. Could read him like an open book - had always been able to, ever since they met. 

Tried his hardest to distract. To caress him, gently, over his shirt, his neck, his cheek, once there was a chance. 

Wouldn’t let it go. 

Even in bed, next to each other. Distracted. Frustrated. 

Needed to say something. 

  
  


This wasn’t the time. But it would never be perfect. 

  
  
  


“You said I was safe here. Before.” 

  
  


Garak was holding a book, but he can’t have been focusing. His concentration slipped even before the words were uttered. 

Knowing something was coming. 

As always. One step ahead. 

  
  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


Clearing his throat. 

How to continue. 

  
  


“I don’t think you were right. I don’t think I can be safe here.” 

  
  


Not following. Or not agreeing. 

A distance between them. 

  
  


“You are safe.” 

  
  


“I maybe was. But I need to leave, if I am better, and I am -- you know that I am.” 

  
  


A nod. 

Slightly hesitant. 

Could there even be hesitation in his body? He was always self-controlled. Always. 

  
  


Julian continuing. 

  
  
  


“I told myself that I shouldn’t stay. You have helped me this far.” 

  
  
  


“I can help you further.” 

  
  
  


“I need some place to go.” 

  
  
  


“Home?” 

  
  


Shaking his head. 

Not home. 

  
  


“I can’t stay here. I don’t want to risk it. But I can’t go back either.” 

  
  


The man seemed like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. 

Pinched his lips, held it in. Unlike him. 

  
  


Then a question. 

One he’d asked himself. 

One that had kept him up, and reappeared with every touch. 

Now asked, by the other’s lips. 

And it sounded like a wish. 

  
  
  


“Can I still see you?” 

  
  
  


Almost shaken, wanting to say yes. Wanting nothing but that. 

  
  
  


“I don’t know.” 

  
  


Couldn’t. 

  
  


“If it’s not too far away... “ 

  
  
  


Again, Garak nodded. 

Didn’t seem to want to speak of it. But it had to be said. 

  
  


If he was found, with this man, there would be consequences. For them both. No matter who got there first, it would unravel before their very eyes. 

As simple as that. 

Already taking so many unnecessary risks. 

Bittersweet. 

In the end, after everything, he knew the only thing he wanted was right there in front of him. And there was little hope of keeping it. 

Keeping this. 

Lifting his hand. 

Placing it on Garak’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. 

Safe. 

It was ironic. 

Like an illusion. 

He’d been feeling so safe. 

Knowing hardly anything about their circumstances, what could happen, what could be, he still felt rooted. This place, this man. 

Now leaving it. Out of nowhere. 

Didn’t deserve this kindness. 

Didn’t deserve the palm on the back of his hand, holding it lightly. 

Didn’t deserve the merging of their bodies, how well they fit together, how good it felt to be wrapped up. 

How exciting and thrilling to have fingertips, stroking his soft spots, a breath in his ear. 

The warmth in his chest. 

What foolishly could be mistaken for something else. 

Everything that was wrong with him laid bare before his eyes. 

Running from conflict for as long as he could remember. 

But this wasn’t conflict.

This was whole. 

Thigh on top of another, fingers gripping around his arm. 

A kiss, carefully placed on top of his lips. 

Eating him. 

Biting back. 

Excitement, shakingly fervent.

Sensitive. 

Moving together, finding pleasure in the pulses. 

Between fabrics, between blankets, underneath the sheets. 

Joined together, through thick and thin, still hungry for one another. 

For the touch. 

For the sensation. 

Ragged breathing, hardly any time for it. He would feel, and touch and get his hands on as much of this man as he possibly could. With this new pact, they had nothing to lose. 

It came back, playing in his head. 

Like a broken record, from the first time they had kissed. 

He’d thought it.

He’d meant it. 

And he still did. 

  
  


_ Have me.  _

_ Have all of me.  _


	14. 14

08.03.2044

  
  


07.55

A vast void of absolute silence was broken. 

A loud knock on the front door. 

Took a second for it to establish. To penetrate the room, hanging hauntingly in the air. 

Body heavy. 

Tangled. 

For half a second, it didn’t react. 

And then it realised. 

Split decision. 

The other man jumping out of bed, face frozen, no giveaway. Complete and utter alienation. A thick veil placed between them, the outside world and whatever was waiting on the other side of the door. 

Moving quickly and quietly, Garak pushed Julian out of bed. 

A hand over his mouth. 

Firm grip around his wrist. 

Pulling, out the door. 

Almost naked. Just his trousers, no shirt, nothing covering. Dragged out of safety. 

Hasty. 

Primal. 

Couldn’t help but follow. 

Where? 

No time to think. 

It could be nothing. 

It could be. 

It could be nothing. 

It wasn’t. Knew it wasn’t. 

Knock. 

Beat. 

Chest tightening, getting harder and harder to breathe. 

Beat. 

Blurry vision, cold feet, following blindly, heart rate peaking. Down the hallway, up towards the wall, kneeling down, lifting the rug - a hatch, underneath. 

A perfect square. 

Entryway. 

What was it? 

Things to process. 

No time. 

A hatch. 

A room, yes, underneath, a basement. 

Cut even between the floorboards, barely noticeable, edges smooth.

Fingers in between. Gripping. Open, open. 

Lifting. 

A voice from outside.

Words, scattered. Shouting something. Penetrating the wall. Deep and resonating, not evil, not menacing - human, unknown. 

Not understanding - speaking another language, and Garak ignored it, lifting the opening, exposing a dark, deep hole into the ground. 

A hard voice. 

A rough voice. 

Hoarse and gruff. 

Only one thing he could make out:  _ Garak _ . 

His name. 

_ Garak.  _

No time to think. 

Feet first, looking for stability - finding something, a step, testing his weight. A ladder? Metal. Sinking his legs, his waist, the rest of his body deep down under. 

Further down. 

Smaller and smaller. 

Head down. 

One last glance. 

Seconds overdue, should already be down, should already be hidden but had to see this, had to get one touch of safety. Garak shut out his last source of light, face pale, eyes dimmed. Distant and cold. 

The last thing he saw. 

Fear. 

Masked in a second, callous and disdainful, but he’d seen it, underneath. Trickling down his face. Ugly. Evident. 

Then gone. 

Darkness. 

Eardrums blocked. 

Standing still. 

Completely still. 

Shuffling, scoffing from over his head. 

Gripping the sides, metal bars, sticky against his palms. Icy cold, rough and uneven. 

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t. Couldn’t. 

That voice, in the background - it called out again, and Garak replied - what did it say? He couldn’t tell, he wouldn’t know, still foreign to his ears. 

Completely still. 

Footsteps. 

Should climb down. Should see what was underneath, but was stuck, hanging in the air - desperate to know exactly what was going on. 

Footsteps.

Footsteps towards the door. 

Couldn’t hear it open, but could hear the shift in weight - could follow the events, one more person, stepping into the hallway. 

Their voices, now together. 

Cautious. 

Hardened. 

No elaboration, short and brief. 

Split halfway through, cutting each other off, never a second of silence between them. Interrogating, struggling, fighting for the upper hand. 

Beat. 

Gradually closer. Louder by default. Sharp, hard consonants, spit from someone’s mouth. 

Beat. 

Pearls of sweat trickling down his forehead. 

This couldn’t be no one. 

Must be someone of importance, connected to Garak - this was an argument. 

Uncomfortable in his own skin. Unable to relax. Knuckles white, chest tightening. 

Steps continued. Moved further away, getting harder and harder to follow. 

As they grew into a steady, even mumble, he finally managed to breathe again - limbs shaking under the pressure, eyelids still heavy from what had been a deep, heavy slumber. 

Sore joints. 

Pulses of adrenaline. 

Voices, incoherent. 

Must be in another room. 

Must have moved further. 

  
  


Dared to take one step. Finding the pin underneath, sinking with his weight, one more step, then one more - five in total before he’d reached the ground. 

Bare feet left no traces against the bars, no noise that would give him away. 

There.

Carefully. 

Stone. Rock. Numbing his toes upon their first contact. 

Could see more now, could see outlines - the walls, the ladder, nailed to the side. A small room, not unlike a storage space, a bunker, safe-house. Safe place. 

In cases of emergency. 

The memory of the bathroom cupboard suddenly clear in his head. 

The supplies. 

The medicine, bandages. 

Emergency. 

What was he preparing for? 

Not escape. 

The opposite. 

Preparing to live here, and die here, all together. 

Steps, through the ceiling. Dirt falling down, trailing like snow from an open sky. Heavier and darker.

Panic, rising. 

Bubbling. 

Rumbling from within, spreading to his fingertips. Tight. Much too tight. 

Breathe. 

Breathe. 

Closing his eyes, holding the metal - couldn’t let go, not yet, it was still foreign, everything around him. Closed up. Small. 

A damp smell. 

Wet birchwood. 

Blinking. 

Adjusting. 

Kept feeling smaller and smaller. 

Agitation and fear, complete disorder. Thoughts in turmoil, no rhythm, no stability. A whirlwind. Freezing. Icicles down his throat. 

Icicles. 

Breathe. 

Remember his hands, remember his -- 

Footsteps. Mumbling, speaking, no idea what it meant, what they said; now quiet. 

Had to be quiet. Better with quiet than noise, better unless… 

Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. 

He’d been wrong. 

Thought this could’ve been a home. 

Couldn’t be. 

Heart stopping. Heart gone. It wasn’t there anymore. It was out of his body, on the floor, in the dirt. Was the dirt. Was the grime and soil, the debris. 

Lungs covered in ash. 

Eyes dry. 

Don’t make a sound. 

Pulse high, but where was his heart? 

Faltering. 

Down. 

Knees hit the floor. 

Was it quiet? 

Didn’t know. 

Couldn’t even feel it. 

Couldn’t check on himself, mind blank. For a Doctor, he was useless, had been for the past few days. 

Beyond it. Out of it. A slave to his own faults, malfunctioning.

One,

Two,

Three.

Only thinking one thing.

Four,

Five

Six. 

Don’t make a noise.

Don’t breathe. 

Get through it. 

Huddled up, wrapping his arms around himself, letting go. 

Letting it spin. 

A trickle of hot liquid, pouring over him from the top of his head. Didn’t stop. Kept on pouring. 

  
  


Imagining.

Down, down, further down. 

Seven eight nine ten -- 

Voices. Words he couldn’t understand. 

They turned into a constant buzz, always there in the back of his head. 

Creaking, moving. 

Sounds everywhere. 

The thick beat of his own pulse, ringing in his ear. 

Felt cut open from within. 

A sharp blade. 

Melting. 

_ Garak.  _

One thought, in the back of his head. 

Just one. 

Echoing. 

Pulsing.

Bit by bit, eating him up. 

This is what it felt like to lose oneself. 

This was where it all ended. 

They’d been caught. 

They’d be captured. 

Something would happen to them. To him, at least. 

This was the end. 

He would lose it all. 

Couldn’t let that happen, but what could he do? 

Lie completely still. 

Arms around his legs, barely even breathing, helplessly stuck in this underground prison.

Start again. 

One, two, three. 

  
  


Keep counting. 

  
  


It’ll be over at some point. 

It’ll be over. 

Whatever it was, it would come to an end. 

At least then he could stop running. Just take what was offered. 

The blade, through his skull. Splitting it open. 

Parting it in half. 

Eyes heavy. Temples heavy. Cheekbones sore, neck sore. 

Four five six. 

Get through this. 

Stay still. 

Breathe. 

Breathe. 

Breathe. 

  
  
  


16.00 

  
  


The first glimpse of light. 

The hatch, opened. 

Blinding. Shadow. 

One. 

Couldn’t move. 

Still in the darkness, still on the floor. 

How long had it been? 

Garak. 

Could recognise his figure, his back as it came down, slowly and steadily lowering towards him. Step, step. Hasty, quick, soon by his side. 

Hands. 

Felt foreign. 

Hours ago they hadn’t been. 

Didn’t recognise them now. 

Stroking, gently, over his hair, over his face. 

Couldn’t see the other man’s eyes. Couldn’t tell what they were feeling, trying to tell him. 

Ears ringing. 

Blinking, concentrating, they were speaking to him -- 

Stop ringing, focus -- 

What was that? 

  
  


“He is gone now.” 

  
  


Must have been. 

That’s what he said. 

He is gone. 

Gone. 

Left. 

Turned away from the one source of light, still couldn’t see -- how long had he been down here for? 

He’d been sat, against the wall. Listening to his own breathing. 

Now here. 

Present. 

Snapped out of it, torn from the nothingness. 

Mouth shaping words. Words that didn’t come out. Licking his lips, trying again, more force - coarse and dry, uncomfortable, but they came: 

  
  


“Get me out.” 

  
  


Still turned, why couldn’t he see him? 

Suddenly hesitant. 

Was it even him? 

Was it someone else? 

What could he trust anymore? 

Not offering, not helping - just taking complete control, an arm around his waist, pulling him up, with force. 

No questions asked. 

It was needed. Couldn’t be done any other way. 

Turned his whole body with all the strength that he had, desperately following. 

One shuffle at a time. 

Half carried. 

Towards the hatch. 

Towards the brightness, the yellow light from above. 

What had been safe so far, but no longer wasn’t. 

They’d been violated. 

Defiled. 

Head turned. 

Finally seeing. 

Pale. 

Hard. 

Bitter and beaten. 

But it was Garak. 

Black hair, gray skin - it looked gray, looked whipped and defeated. Had never seen him that real. That honest, under all the defeat. 

As broken as he seemed, he was real. 

There. 

Holding him up, his weak body and weak mind. 

One step at a time.

Getting him out. Getting him up. 

Back to what he knew. 

Back where they’d started. 

Back to the beginning. 

  
  
  
  


17.19 

  
  


It took time. 

Explained things. 

Not exactly who, not exactly what, but just as much as he could handle. 

He hadn’t expected this - but Garak had. He’d expected a visit, at some point. Hadn’t said anything about it, nor implied; not told him nearly enough to prepare for it. 

For some reason, he wasn’t angry. 

Why it had happened, he didn’t know. Didn’t care at this point. 

Not strong enough to ask.

Just cared that he was out. 

Gone. 

The visitor wasn’t a stranger, he knew that. 

It was someone he’d known.

Someone who came to check on him. To see that he was here. Living painfully. 

In his exile. 

In his prison. 

Didn’t need more than that. 

Been down, under the house, for eight hours. 

Eight. 

Listened to every single heartbeat, every breath he’d managed to muster. It was a dark reminder of what he once had been, what he’d escaped from. 

Escaped? 

Ran away. 

Spineless. 

But was it? 

Not so sure anymore.

If this was the alternative, then maybe it hadn’t been so wrong. 

More than ever, he needed to leave. All of this. This house, this country, this man. He knew this, knew it was logical, the only right thing to do. 

But he saw right through it. 

Because more than ever, he knew that he couldn’t. 

Impossible at this point. 

Too far in. 

Too involved, swallowed up. 

Rooted here now. In these problems, in this man. 

Rooted. 

And Garak was disheveled. Didn’t say much, it was seen through his actions. He held him with care, but not with confidence, not anymore. Seemed almost afraid, like this had been his fault. 

Hadn’t it been? 

Yes. 

No. 

It was someone else’s. Something else’s. Something that punished him and put him in this place, kept him here, kept him in check. 

  
  
  


“I didn’t expect them to come so soon again.” 

  
  
  


So they’d been there before. Recently, even.

How often did it happen? 

It didn’t matter. 

All that mattered was that they hadn’t noticed. 

Hadn’t seen anything suspicious. 

Felt like a bad dream. He had been sure that it was over. There were traces of them everywhere, the past few days, their lives - all they’d done, it was here, in proof. 

How had it gone unnoticed? 

The man must have covered it up. Somehow, he’d managed. 

And so had Julian. 

Quietly. 

For eight hours, under the floorboards, under the house. 

  
  


Tired of speculating. 

  
  


It never ended. 

Dug himself into a hole. Impossible to get out from. 

Tired. 

God, so tired. 

Was brought something. 

A cup of tea. 

A plate. 

Could barely manage to have a bit of food, instantly nauseous, revolted by hunger. Couldn’t manage, it was too much. 

Leave it. 

  
  
  


“I had to make sure they were gone.” 

  
  
  


Understood that. 

But it had been hell. All darkness and cold, barely any clothes on, nothing to eat or drink… Just him and his head. His malfunctioning brain, body and self. 

A carcass. 

  
  


It didn’t matter. 

  
  


“I’m sorry.” 

  
  


Don’t apologise. 

Made it all worse. 

  
  


Ended it. Ended this. Stood up, ready to leave it behind. Just for now. Just for a while. Couldn’t manage to think about it anymore. 

So he asked for things instead. 

Got clothes. 

Got water. 

Washed himself up. 

Face, chest, arms. 

Brown, dirty water in the sink. Smelling damp. Old, and rotten. 

Stared at the reflection in the mirror. 

Surprisingly vivid. Colourful, intense.

Must have messed up some part of his brain, didn’t understand how this could make him look alive. Was it the panic?

Maybe the adrenaline. 

Overrunning. Constantly. 

Now he was here, and he was lifelike. 

Radiating. Poisonous. 

And Garak was a shadow, following him around, asking for permission without opening his mouth. Didn’t feel true. 

Didn’t feel real. 

Wasn’t like him. 

Didn’t like that. 

Only blamed him a little bit. 

Was too tired to be angry. There was no fight, there was no struggle. Just an underlying freezing fear, a stroke of guilt. 

Unpleasant and violent. 

Tired. 

Too tired to feel anything. 

Dragged himself out of the bathroom. 

Over the hatch, hidden again. 

Between the walls.

Through the door. 

Into the light. 

Slipped into bed. 

  
  


The man checked his locks. Closed all curtains, left no gaps. Then he stood by the side, just looking. Didn’t dare to come close. 

  
  


This was supposed to be the second night.

Second to last. 

But he didn’t know anymore, didn’t know what was to come. 

If this could happen again, they needed a plan. 

Or he needed to go. 

That thought was overwhelming. It turned his thinking into an incoherent mess, fuzzy and loud so he abandoned it, left it for later. 

Just like with everything else, he didn’t know how to feel. 

Needed the void. 

Knew he would get it. 

He still had tomorrow. 

The last. 

Drifting off. 

Not to sleep, just to rest. Passive and blank, dreamless and blurred. 

Head still pounding. 

Skin still tight. 

Warm. 

Back. 

  
  
  


Didn’t notice Garak leaving the room. 

His figure, retiring, as pale as before. 

Shattered, to many pieces. 

It was quiet. 

Again. 

Undisturbed, and sacred. 

All that could be heard was the wind. 

  
  
  
  



	15. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.   
I was really looking forward to posting this chapter over the holiday period. I do, however, have a few things to go through before I leave you to your reading! 
> 
> Firstly, I've added a tag. This chapter, and probably future parts of this story contains descriptions of violence. I hope this doesn't scare anyone off, and if it does, my apologies. 
> 
> Secondly, I'm going to go on a little break now - enjoying the holidays with my family, so there will be a bigger gap before I post my next chapter. I'm sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger, but hopefully you'll be excited to read the rest! 
> 
> Thirdly and lastly, neverending praise and love for my beta'er and dear friend Syaunei.   
How I'd survive this without her, I don't know.

09.03.2044

05.49

  
  


In bed. 

Alone. 

Just himself, and his cold, stiff body. 

Windows still rattling from the hard, rough wind. Merciless and empty. Soundscapes. Abysmal. 

Early still, glancing at the clock, no light from outside. Sun hiding, not daring to come out. 

Headache like a hangover. 

Abandoned. 

No.

Hadn’t been abandoned. He’d chosen to be alone. 

Yesterday’s commotion circling like a dark cloud. 

Every fibre in his body, shaken by the memory. 

Almost 6 in the morning. 

And he was still scared. 

Still eaten by it. 

Where was Garak? 

Sitting up. 

Didn’t want to, but did it. 

Uncomfortable. 

Heavy. 

Grains in his eyes, face locked in a frown. Jaw clenched. Teeth hurting, gums aching. Muscles sore. 

Clock ticking. 

Surroundings strange. Dark and eerie. 

Never looked like that before. 

Had always had a sense to them. 

Even in the beginning. 

Not now. 

Now it was foreign. 

Shoving the covers to the side, putting his feet on the floor. 

Standing up. 

Not knowing why he was moving with such determination, not knowing why he was up at all. 

So early. 

So beaten. 

Daggers from underneath. Each step hurt. But it was bright outside, in the hallway. 

The rug, rough against his toes. 

Had to take a second. Had to take the room in, get used to it. Get past the memories. 

Could see the square, the burning square of the hatch, from under the rug, and stared at it. Moved in on it. Closer, and closer, until he was on top of it. 

Closed his eyes. 

Survived it. 

Survived it now, survived it then. 

Garak had only wanted to protect him. 

Eight hours of dampness and cold still gnawing away at his organs. From inside, it rustled. Wouldn’t let it win. 

Because it wasn’t meant to be evil. 

It was cautious preparations for survival. 

And he had. Survived. 

What else could he have asked for? 

Moved past it. 

Moved towards the door. 

Half closed, could see glimpses of the wall. No shadows, no sounds. Just footsteps, from himself. 

Carefully reaching out. 

Carefully pushing. 

Opening. 

Seeing. 

A light, in the window. 

Emptiness outside. 

Everything in order. 

And Garak, silent on the sofa. 

Up. 

Sitting. 

Hunched over, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Posture fixed in a crooked pose, hands in his lap, looking out the side. 

Couldn’t see his face. 

Not unlike yesterday, when he’d searched for his expression. Needed to see that it was him. 

Taken away. 

Just stood. 

Didn’t know what to say. 

Expressions lost. 

Must have known he was there, must have felt it. 

Heard it. 

Turned, on cue. 

Empty. 

Half lit. 

No expression. 

Evaluation. 

Waiting for the verdict. 

Was it Julian’s to give? 

His time to forgive. Hadn’t he already? 

Not openly. 

Wasn’t sure what to say, just stood. Fiddling, unsure, the distance between them nagging him. 

Then he heard them. 

Finally. 

His heartbeats, catching up to him. 

Beating like before. 

Even, and unbreakable. 

The way they should. 

Like they had, when this was new. When things were normal. 

As normal as they could have been. 

Wasn’t running, wasn’t hiding. Just being. 

Beat. 

Words came out of his mouth, soft and sweet. 

They weren’t what he needed to say, but what he felt. What should be happening. 

  
  


“Come to bed.” 

  
  


Beat. 

Beat. 

  
  


If this place had never been safe, he’d lived in an illusion. 

But it was better than anything else. 

Still sat, looking at him. 

Expressions breaking down, right before him. 

Not helpless, like before. 

Not sad, not broken. 

Demanding. 

Searching. 

Looking for honesty, to pick apart his words. 

  
  
  


“Just come back.” 

  
  
  


Then blank. 

Understood. 

  
  


Didn’t need forgiveness, it was never his to give. It was useless to have that power, nothing good could ever come from it. 

He had no idea what he had given himself into. But he had, fully, completely done it. 

Choosing this. 

Couldn’t shy away from complications. 

He was complicated. 

Felt awful. 

Which was, undoubtedly, deserving. 

Stood up. 

Moved forwards. 

A meter apart, just looking. 

Judging. 

Building up, and strengthening. 

Promising. 

Apart from all doubt, knew he had to close it. 

So he did. 

Moved in. 

Reading his face, careful for any hints of hesitation. 

But there were none. 

There was peace. 

And there was trust. 

Again. 

A beat. 

  
  


Then he kissed him.

Softly. 

Added power to it. Determination and assurance. 

Needed to show. 

Needed to make sure. 

Left it long, for as long as he dared. Wrapped in it, consoled by it, communicating through lips and hands and the frailest touch. 

And Garak replied. 

Held him tight. 

As tight as he could, almost rough in its frankness. 

Body to body, breathing together. 

An embrace to crush. Evaporate the broken. 

Start anew. 

If there could be new things. 

If the grounds weren’t damaged, and the soil left barren. 

It wasn’t. 

He would make sure it wasn’t. 

  
  
  


10.42

  
  


Touches never left. Drifting off, coming back, waking up, bit by bit, closing his eyes again. 

Always there. 

Face buried between pillow and neck. 

His smell. 

His arm around his waist. His hand cupping the other. 

Where he should have been, all along. 

Stroking. Circling. 

Marking with his fingers. 

Shifting positions, a couple of times, moulding together, arms and legs entangled. 

Between the pulses of dreamless sleep, he could still feel the warmth of his touch. In the midsts, there were strokes, of pleasure and excitement. 

Dared to think it. 

This was whole. 

And the touch felt different. Whole, and real. Not blunders of ecstacy, clumsiness and adrenaline. 

Face to face. 

Forehead to forehead. 

Stroking his back, up and down. 

A slight awakening. 

Prickling of his skin. 

The ever so hesitant jolt of excitement. 

Dressed down by open eyes, white in the light, pale and bright. Exposing him, leaving him naked. Wishing he was. Wishing he could be, for all time that was left. 

Greyish skin against his own, warm colour. 

Feeling. 

Evolving. 

Under layers, under fabrics. 

Under the shirt. 

His scarred body. His torso, his back. 

Bathing in the light of it. Thriving at the chance of being able to touch it, caress it, do whatever he wanted.

Run his fingers over it. 

Move his body on top of it, move with it, with its rhythm. Glued together. Ribcage, spine, hip bones moving - as did his, following, perfectly. 

Fabrics between them adding to the friction. 

Rolling. 

Kissing. 

Falling, deeper. Searching for pleasure. Searching for relief, constant begging, looking for escape. 

Impossible.

Addictive. Addicted. 

Hands, moving. 

Looking. 

Looking for him. 

The truth. The core. Where he could pull, and tear, and give in to the restlessness. Claw into one spot, get rid of all this anger. 

Tickling inside. 

Molten lava, running down. Back, forth. 

Garak’s hands were heavy. 

When they slid down his back, he thought they left scars. 

Wanted more of that. 

At first, their roughness. Then, their heat. 

On top. 

Mirroring. 

Straddling, looking down. 

An open face. 

So full of desire, his heart skipped a beat.

Couldn’t get rid of it. 

Didn’t want to. 

There, underneath him. 

The man. 

This man. 

His lips. 

His hands, moving over his body. 

Tearing away. 

Freeing him from his clothes. 

Kissing his naked skin. 

Capturing, holding, moving, then gripping - pulling him down, searching with his hands. 

Knowing exactly where. Knowing exactly how. 

Just his fingers. 

Just how they move. 

Their first contact - every muscle flexing, every fibre of his being, giving in to pleasure. 

Giving in. 

Giving up. 

Just being. 

Just enjoying. 

Moving with the feeling. Following direction, one guiding hand on his hip. 

Crashing down. 

Face to face. 

Searching for lips, for warmth.

For safety. 

Just as good. 

Jolts of excitement. 

Breathing heavy, kissing down his neck - had to give, had to. 

The fighting. Back and forth. 

Always giving in. 

Not being able to hold it up. 

Just a fraction too late. 

Too weak. 

Enjoying this just a little too much. 

Would do anything for it. 

Never wanting it to stop. 

Stimulation. 

Visual.

Physical. 

Audible. 

Breath against his neck, against his ear. 

Prickled skin. 

Hands feeling, touching, healing. 

Evoking. 

Under himself, he could feel him. 

Hard. 

Waiting. 

Brushing against him. 

Didn’t want to wait anymore, but knew that he had to. 

Had to take this time. 

Had to do it properly, or it wouldn’t work. 

For either of them. For both. 

Frustrating. 

Bubbling heat, from his guts. 

Gave in. 

Touched, kissed. 

Was grabbed and held, thrown around, put on his back - pushed against the mattress, legs around his waist. 

Harder and rougher than he had expected, but nothing to complain about, if anything, it fueled the fire. 

Eating at him.

Pulling his strings. 

Kisses down his chest, a hand searching for him, holding him again. 

Pulsing. 

Rhythmically. 

Gasping for air, swallowed by ecstasy. 

Fumbling to give back, searching for underwear, fingers on the edge, pulling down, gripping, grappling. 

Moaning into each others mouths. Holding each other. Touching each other. Feeling the movement, riding the pulse. 

Equal excitement. 

Clumsy and broken. Hard and real. 

Hands falling away, moving on, left waiting for a second -- one second too many, one second of drunken panic, before he could feel another touch, further down. 

Little at first. 

Just a little. Just a push. 

Smaller. 

Grabbing his shoulders, his back, holding it tight. Getting ready. 

The other man. Asking for permission, so gently. 

Teasing.

Playing. 

Just his hand, just his finger. 

Julian was hot. 

Sweating. 

Shivering. 

Lifting his head, whispering quietly, into his ear; “Do it.” 

Commanding. 

An order. 

Obliging. 

Entering. 

Slowly. 

Not painlessly, uncomfortable, but another hand was searching and he could feel himself being held again, being stroked to a pulse, warming up to the touch. 

Taken care of. 

Unable to lie still. 

Prickles. Trickling. How much he wanted it. 

Wanted him. 

Now. 

There. 

Wanted them to be together, as close as this. 

As close as they could be. 

Sticky. 

Wet. 

Grabbing shoulders tighter, aching for more. 

Nibbling at his ear, heating it with his breath. 

Whispering nonsense. 

Inaudible wishes. 

Pushing. 

Harder. 

Replacing his hand. 

With him. 

It was him. 

Fingers running up, grabbing the roots of the other man’s hair, the nape of his neck, something to hold on to. 

Relax. 

Breathe. 

Pulses. Steady. 

Entered. 

Opened. 

Just them two. Just their bodies, connected. 

Finally. 

More. Deeper. 

Needed him deeper, further in. 

Wanted to know what if would feel like. 

He would know. 

He would. 

There. 

Relax. 

Wasn’t painful. 

It couldn’t be. 

Relax. 

Let go. 

Slowly, slowly, no moving at first. So careful. 

Head back. 

Looking at him, his eyes, ever so piercing. So warm. So caring. 

Touching. 

Just them two. 

Remember that, just them. 

Hand moving, interlocking fingers,

Breaths, 

Movements. 

A quiet gasp, lips together, closing his eyes - focusing on the feeling, the adjusting, the wariness. 

Bit by bit. 

Daring more. Daring to enjoy. 

Everything sensitive. Every little piece of him, jolting by the touch. 

Nerves aching. 

Fingers buzzing. 

Touch. 

His breath. 

Garak, his face, the traces of enjoyment. 

Drank it in. 

Touch. 

Heart warming by it. Bursting, in his chest. 

Beating so hard. 

Beating rebelliously. 

A flood of endorphins, thoughts all scrambled. 

Overpowered by his senses. 

These jolts of pleasure. 

Washing. 

Tearing. 

Thought he was going to explode. 

Thought the moving would never stop. 

Their pace. Increased. 

Skin against skin.

Friction. 

It was whole. It was painfully tender, he knew he was close. 

They’d merged, all sensations. 

Sensitivity and discomfort.

Pain and pleasure. 

All just a pool. 

A wave. 

Pleasure. 

So soon. 

Breathe. 

Fight it. 

Breathe. 

So good. 

So so so good, so brutally painfully physically tumultuous. 

Chaos. 

Always. 

His brain, chaos. 

Eyes closing, fingers pinched. 

Lawless. 

Coarse. 

Biting. 

Bright. 

The rush, it came. 

So close he could see it. 

Grabbing tight. 

Holding, panting, gripping for his life. 

No warning, no words, just sounds coming out of his mouth, sweet and short. Moans of ecstasy, to the sensation of pleasure, 

swallowing him whole. 

He came. 

Hard. 

To the rhythm they moved in, shaking with each draw. 

A beat - his hands, clawing at skin. 

Legs holding, head back. 

Pushed into the mattress. 

Feeling it. 

Coming. 

Sticky and wet. 

Always, sweaty. Warm. Pulsing. 

Blood beating. 

Thick and heavy. 

Mush. 

Dizzy. 

Still in it, still moving, suddenly shaking - his body, empty, Garak moaning. 

Pulling out. 

Another wave. 

It was there, with him. 

Julian watched it, his expressions swallowed. 

Ecstasy. 

Climax. 

His body, towering, on top of his own. 

Glittering in the light. 

Wrinkles by the eyes, shoulders sticking out, 

Hands holding him from a distance. 

Fingers digging into his sore, rosy skin. 

Muscles fixed. 

Shaking with relief. 

Pleasure became him. 

Washed over him. 

Left him dry. 

And Julian had never seen anything more beautiful. 

  
  
  


15.16 

  
  
  


Watched his closed eyes. Regaining those minutes of hard earned sleep, wondering if he’d even sat down during the night. 

Walked around. Worrying. 

He’d been too tired to think. 

Here. Now. 

Next to each other. 

Emptied. 

Entangled. 

Sweet. 

His chest so warm, he could feel its source. 

His heart. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

So fond of him. 

So utterly, completely consumed by him. 

Whoever he was. 

  
  


Whatever he’d done. 

Devoured. 

Eaten alive. 

Hadn’t been something else. 

Had grown into this, from the very beginning. 

A cold need. Utter desperation. 

It wasn’t just that anymore. 

He knew that now. 

With all the other things that he knew, that he’d figured out along the way. 

Now that this place was different, the walls, the ceiling, the floor - reeking of violation. Shaken by fear,

It only came to him now, when it all should have been over. 

He was eaten.

Devoured. 

Completely, and utterly,

taken by this stranger. 

  
  
  


03.10 

  
  
  


It came at night. 

Again. 

The fear. 

  
  


Recognising the feeling. Letting it take a hold over him. 

They’d mostly rested. 

Eaten, spoken. 

It felt new. 

But it felt old. 

Understood a lot more now. 

Understood more things. 

But not enough. 

Himself, mostly. 

Not the other. 

Not what had happened. 

Before, it hadn’t mattered. When he’d laid in bed, wanting nothing but rest, it felt small.

Accepted defeat. 

No fight. 

Now, he craved it. 

Because he knew himself. 

Knew how this story went. 

Disastrously. 

  
  


Garak was sleeping. 

Quietly. 

Barely breathing. 

Watched him, and his soft features. 

Ten years younger, wrapped up by the covers. 

Like that photograph. 

Him and that man. 

Hiding behind all of this. 

Monitored by something. 

Someone. 

People. 

People who had placed him here. 

Maybe they suspected something. 

Maybe. 

Maybe not. 

Either way, it was suffocating them. 

And it would end. 

For them both. 

  
  


Left bed. 

Bare feet on the floor. 

Looking around, looking for something - for what? 

Couldn’t know. But something, just a hint. Just a grain of truth - a sign, if there could be one. 

Had turned this place inside and out. 

Had walked around, investigating. 

Seen the kitchen.

Seen the living room. 

Seen the bedroom. 

Seen the bathroom. 

Seen traces of secrets. 

Everywhere. 

Indications.

Preparations. 

Hints, allegations. 

Something… 

Where? 

One place. 

He knew. 

Only one place he hadn’t looked in. 

Only one. 

It had been dark. And cold. And empty. 

Smelled like wood. 

Cold. 

There could be something. 

If he looked, properly - things he must have missed. 

Out. 

The hallway. 

The rug, the hatch. 

Moving towards it - stopping himself. 

Maybe this wasn’t the right thing to do. Hours ago, he’d been happy, content. Blissfully curled up in a warm embrace. 

That had always been enough. 

So far, it had been. Why wasn’t it now? 

Because he knew he wasn’t safe. 

Not just him. 

Garak too. 

Garak wasn’t safe. None of them were. 

Both of them weren’t. 

Moved, again. 

Felt disgusting. 

Dirty. 

Couldn’t stop now. 

Couldn’t stop his hands from pulling away the rug. 

Diggings his nails between the planks. 

Lifting. 

Holding. 

The breeze. 

Grey. 

Bottomless. 

Metal steps. 

One look towards the door - it was locked, it was closed. 

The bedroom, still silent. 

Hadn’t been detected. 

Filthy. 

Lowering himself, searching for support - one step, heel first. 

Like ice. 

Another. 

Waist down, another step. 

Another step. 

Another. 

Down. 

Deep. 

Swallowed by darkness. 

Gripping the metal, hard, fingers frozen. 

Down. 

Down. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

What was he doing? 

This was a mistake. 

This was ridiculous. 

But he needed something. It had gone too far, his state, his devotion - taking one piece of his heart at a time. 

Down. 

Reached the ground. Felt its cold, hard surface. 

Adjusted. 

Waited. 

Could see better, with the hatch open. 

Could see shadows, which he recognised. 

Emptiness. 

Space. 

In the corner, a shelf. Two, three books, their spines, unreadable and blackened. 

Bottles. 

Plastic.

Assuming. 

Moving towards them. Carefully, slowly. 

Had seen this shelf before. 

Hadn’t memorised it, hadn’t thought of it, but it was there, like a shadow in his mind. 

Heart beating. 

Quickly. 

Breathing.

Slowly. 

Reached it. 

On the side, a torch - fingers gripping it, metal and plastic, searching for the switch. 

Found it. 

Yellow light, bursting out. 

If he’d known that before… 

Used the beacon. 

Followed the space. 

He must have been right. This was a hideout. A small, quiet secret, to disappear in. 

For Garak. 

Wood. Metal. Stone. 

Square corners. 

A sink, in one. Must have missed that before. 

A bucket. 

Boxes. 

Two. 

One opened, one shut. 

Moved towards them. 

Beat. 

Beat. 

_ Stop.  _

Couldn’t. 

Moved. 

_ Stop.  _

Ignore. 

There could be something. 

Kneeling down. 

Big. Cardboard. 

Dampened from the air. 

Looking in. 

Packages. Dried food. Bottles of water. Bottles of medicine. 

Pills. Dressings. Much like upstairs. 

Lifting some out, fabrics underneath. Blankets, clothing. 

Had to stop. 

Just for a second. 

This could be what every household here looked like. Every good, prepared home should be cautious - should be like that, but he knew that this was different. 

Eerie. 

Chilling. 

Because he knew what could happen. 

But not what  _ had _ happened. 

Not a word. 

Not a thing. 

  
  


Put the things back. 

Should go back upstairs. 

Should leave this. 

Should ask about it. Be honest, in the morning. When Garak had a chance to defend himself - not be dissected, pulled apart, whilst he was sleeping upstairs. 

On his way to standing up, but fingers itched. 

The other box. 

It was shut. 

It was smaller. 

Dusty. 

Forgotten.

Stacked aside, could be on purpose. 

_ Leave it.  _

Unfolding the top. Carefully lifting the layers of cardboard. 

Adjusting.

Waiting. 

Emptier than the other. 

Fabrics. 

Not blankets, something to wear - couldn’t see the colour, but touched it - rough. Hard, uncomfortable. 

A jacket. 

Lifting. 

Pulling it out, putting the torch on the side - 

  
  


He knew it. 

This was it. 

The jacket in the picture, the green one, his military wear. 

No medals. 

Stripped. 

Looked nude, and simple. 

  
  


Was going to fold it, to put it back, when he saw it. 

Underneath. 

Between this jacket, and what must be trousers, after. 

Between the layers, it was put. 

Black. 

A gun. 

  
  


His heart stopped beating. 

Ice. 

Dry. 

Couldn’t swallow. 

  
  


Of course, for protection. 

Shouldn’t scare him. 

He should have guessed. 

Should have known. 

  
  


Fingertips carefully touching its surface. 

Not warm. Not cold. Just something in between. 

Must be loaded. 

Must be. 

  
  


Something else, on the side. 

Hadn’t seen it when he’d flashed the torch down, was put away, in the corner… 

A piece of paper. 

Pulling. 

Thin, uneven quality. 

Not just paper - there was writing, from a computer. A print. 

A newspaper. 

Carefully, tugged it up from its hiding place, hanging between his fingers. 

Jacket to the side. 

Grabbed the torch. 

Flickering, then stable. 

Everything felt colder. 

Couldn’t understand the words, not the headline - nor the subheading, the columns, all foreign. But there were pictures. 

Grainy. In colour. Blue, and white. 

Ice through his veins. 

Couldn’t see properly. 

Blinking. 

Following. 

Outlines of a truck. In the picture, it was tipped over. Smoke rising from the engines, frozen in the shot. 

Markings from bullets in the side. So small, barely noticeable through the pixels. 

Door buckled in. 

The whole side, completely wretched. 

The back door, open. 

No sign of what was inside. 

Not in the first picture. 

But in the second. 

Couldn’t see what, at first. 

Too blurry. 

Too grainy. 

Coming together. 

Turning his insides. 

Felt sick. 

Felt wrong. 

Couldn’t look away. 

Limbs. 

Arms, legs. 

Bodies, on top of each other. 

Bodies. 

Hair, clothes - humans. 

Unnaturally posed. 

Unnaturally clumped together. 

An aftermath. 

A subheading, under the picture - couldn’t know it, but he tried, tried to understand… Impossible. 

What was this? 

No faces up close. 

Just lifeless bodies. 

Searched further down, 

Had to see, had to find an answer -- knew there wouldn’t be one, none that he liked. 

Did that matter anymore? 

More text. 

More paragraphs, but then - 

Four pictures. 

From right, to left. 

Faces. 

Pale. 

Foreign to his eyes. 

Three of them, at least. 

Three of them unknown. 

But the last. 

His name. 

Under it, under his face. His name, in bold. Small, thick letters. 

Elim Garak. 

Eyes cold. 

Smiling, distantly. 

Dimples in his cheeks. 

Hair slicked back. 

Elim Garak. 

Next to these three other men. 

Letters shaping words, into sentences he couldn’t understand. Spelling out the story, trying to tell him what he didn’t see. 

But he didn’t have to. 

Somehow, he knew. 

  
  


Garak was involved. 

All these people, these bodies - in the back of a truck, shot, crashed, fallen to the side of the road. 

None of their faces, only their limbs. 

Nothing left. 

Nothing to show. 

Only these four men. 

  
  
  


He couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t move. 

Didn’t panic. 

Didn’t fall. 

Only sat. 

Stared. 

The smiles. 

The limbs. 

The uniforms, medals. 

The smoking engine. 

  
  


Empty. 

This was what he’d been hiding. 

What this was.

What had happened. 

  
  


Killed. 

He had killed. 

  
  
  


His body acted on its own. 

Expanded his lungs, opened his rib cage.

Deflated. 

Expanded. 

Frozen solid. 

Head empty. 

For ten minutes. 

Ten. 

Just the pictures. 

Burnt onto his retina. 

Limbs. 

Truck. 

Men. 

  
  


He stood up. 

Left everything untouched. 

Climbed, into the light. 

Pulled himself out. 

Quiet, on the floor. 

Stared at the ceiling. 

The image. 

The bodies. 

Burnt. 

Got up, started to move. 

Took a jacket. 

Outerwear. 

Gloves. 

Boots. 

Hat. 

Looked back. 

One step, into the light. 

Into the bedroom. 

His figure, so peaceful. 

So familiar. 

So safe. 

It had been everything. 

His everything. 

His soul. 

His heart. 

Here was his peace. 

Inside these walls, inside that bed. 

With this man. 

  
  


Quietly, he stepped back. 

Opened the door, and stepped out, 

Into the cold. 

Closing the door. 

Forcing himself. 

Tearing away. 

Could still see his body, where it had been, on the bed. 

Where it would be, always. 

Always, in his memory. 

  
  


Ripping, breaking, and splintering inside. 

He left. 

He walked. 

Heavy, and broken. 

  
  


For every step, 

he cut off his roots,

And they bled, immeasurably,

in the freshly fallen snow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone!
> 
> Leave your thoughts.


	16. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. 
> 
> It's been a while. 
> 
> I would like to start with apologizing for never returning to this story. Roots has given me so much happiness in a time when I really really needed it. It was such an amazing experience for me to write this piece, and I am overwhelmed with the responses that I got once I started to post it. 
> 
> I don't want to take up too much time writing about the reason why I've been gone, it's not that important, but I just wanted you all to know that I am eternally grateful for the comments I have received during the time that I've been away. I had to pick myself up from a bad place, and ended up associating this story with things I was going through at the time. But I am so damn proud that I managed to write this - and share it with you all, and seeing people still leaving comments when I'd been away for half a year was just so overwhelming. 
> 
> I really loved writing Roots.  
And I really loved writing a conclusion.  
I'm really sorry I didn't have the gusto to scribble out what was left of the story.  
But I needed to take care of myself, and now I'm ready, to give you an ending that I hope will make you happy, if you're still here and willing to take it. 
> 
> So I would like to say a massive thank you to my biggest supporter and loving friend, Syaunei, who you all know has been here since the beginning. You know how much I love you. This wouldn't exist if it wasn't for you. I will always think of you, when I think of Roots.

1464 days. 

Dreams still as vivid. 

Blood still as red. 

Heart still as aching. 

But he was alive. 

As the world had changed, so had he. With riots and protests, propaganda and advertising, he had also moved towards a future of peace. As he had traveled, his surroundings had gained more colour, saturated with the colour of the leaves, sucked in the sunlight as nights turned less dark. 

Back to a country where he spoke the language. 

Back to population, uniforms like his own, pale faces of pride and joy. 

An empty flat with green painted walls. Alone, but not lonely. Surrounded by new connections, new faces, new colleagues and neighbors and maybe even friends. People who knew him as Simon, not Julian. 

Simon, who had arrived one spring morning, at the back of a truck, hitchhiking with a stranger. 

Simon who had spent nights in public parks, in local libraries and warehouses, desperate for a roof over his head. Who eventually had found one. Who forged a certificate to get work at a clinic, and shaved his hair off, and burned his identity card in hopes of never being found. 

But under Simon rested Julian. And as much as Simon loved the spring, Julian was aching to wake up from hibernation. 

Even though peace was now a cause for celebration, everyone knew that internal struggles were only just beginning. Two countries with a history of brotherhood were broken, shattered into pieces, relying on each other’s kindness once again, but the threat would always be lingering. It wasn’t direct, wasn’t at the doorstep, but came as whispers in the wind. From other parts of the world, who had forced them into hostility. 

Complications. Heartbreak. Survivors left and right, veterans at every street corner. Hiding, pretending not to be one of them. Pretending not having been touched by disaster. 

Surprising how quickly society had turned, from conflict to comradeship, mending broken bonds. 

In small towns you could barely notice it. Only the north was still left in ruins, being built back up by the minute. The further south, the quieter it got. But as much as it was tempting, Julian couldn’t bring himself to go. Not even to get away from the politics. Not to escape even further, go as far away as he could. 

This land held him tight. 

It was a functioning addiction. 

Remembering footsteps in the snow. Feeling one with the grounds, with the land. Merging with its existence, knowing that he was equal to it. 

It was a part of him now. 

A majority of what he was. 

But it came with a price. 

The image of a face. 

The feeling of being carried. Tucked into bed. Washed in a shower, given a bowl of food. 

Patterned wallpaper, book titles, a sewing machine. 

A face. 

So simple. 

It almost felt like a dream. 

It took him a year to remember it all, too busy with the crisis of finding a new place to call home, to belong in. Once it came back, it came down hard, crushing him like a rock, breaking him down once again, every night. 

For a few months, it was all he could see. 

All he could feel. 

Physical touch, psychologically there. 

Then it faded again.

Got worse during winter. Better with spring. 

Another year passed, and things seemed to get easier. 

He would still wake up cold, looking for a chest with a beating heart. 

Nothing but his own. 

Echoing between empty walls. 

  
  


Doctor Julian Bashir didn’t exist anymore. He was a war casualty, as far as his family was aware. There was only one place where Julian was still alive. One place where he was remembered, alive. 

Far away. 

A place where he wouldn’t ever return.

So that was that. 

Here, there was a view of the sea. Salty air that crept in under your shirt. Left a taste in your mouth. Crept in through your window. Houses were built out of wood, painted in bright colours. The trees still grew close, but there were less of them. 

Men who had fought worked in the copper mine. Their children were back at school. And the clinic was busy, work was stimulating, almost seeming… Normal. 

Every day. 

Routine. 

Spring, once again. 

This place was very different, but on the surface, it seemed like a home. 

I could be one. 

It could. 

Narrow pavements. Old neon signs. Groups of people, seeming to belong. 

Community. 

No grasping for survival. 

  
  


There were days when he wouldn’t remember anything. Just live, just breathe, have conversations and laugh and cook himself a meal as he came home, falling asleep on the sofa. 

Other days would be hard. Echoes of defeat, fingerprints of disappointment, of failure. 

A pointless question, running through his mind, again and again. 

Couldn’t answer it. Couldn’t ever. 

Could still feel the vibrations from the truck as it drove him safely across the borders. The adrenaline by the checkpoints, the heart in his throat. 

The emptiness of abandoning it all. 

Whatever was left of his heart. 

Knowing what he did was wrong. 

Knowing deep down in his bones. 

Still going. 

Needing to. 

For some reason, he was convinced. 

It had been so easy. Every bit of the journey, shorter than expected, than remembered. Like the only thing stopping him had been himself. And it had been. 

Mostly. 

In his mind, through the open door leading into the bedroom, he could see a silhouette still sleeping in that bed. Sheets and duvet crumpled to the side where his own body had lied only minutes ago. Minutes before he’d made the most important decision in his life. 

He didn’t need to go look. 

Footsteps in the snow. 

Feeling like an animal. 

Running through the woods, wearing practically nothing. 

An image that would come back. Then come back again. Until it became a daily routine to wake up to that image, a reason to remind himself of why he had left. 

And the more time went on, the easier it was to convince himself. Once it hit him again, he could think about it more clearly. 

Heart aching with doubt. 

There had been enough death. Enough fear and loathing. 

He’d made the right decision.

He should have known that running wasn’t going to save him this time, but it became a different escape. 

A fight with himself. 

This was all he wanted now. 

A safe place. A town where he could be someone new. Could be the nurse at the clinic, the small town worker, the man who came from nowhere and merged with society, nobody questioning his existence. 

And it hadn’t happened. 

Not yet. 

His brain could work coherently. It wasn’t a constant mess of anxiety and fear. 

Not pieced together by someone else’s hands. 

His hands. 

Their touch. 

Warm, bruised, hard working. 

Only a memory. 

  
  


Life over here was very much different. But it had the essence of what he had discovered. 

It had the roughness. 

The bitterness. 

The community, and the love. 

Close to the woods, but not quite secluded. 

It wasn’t the same country he’d grown up in - it was different, it had changed. But for some reason, the north seemed ancient, with its ever growing greens and pitch black nights. Like it had always been like this, even when its inhabitants lived and died, for generations. 

Couldn’t part with it now. 

Wouldn’t part with it, after all of this. 

This living. 

Breathing sea air. 

Helping people. 

Starting fresh. 

  
  


Growing into something else. Something that he wanted to become, so desperately that he changed every living thing about him. 

Experience matured him. 

This journey had changed him. 

Age was suddenly evident. 

But he was torn. 

And he carried emptiness. 

Living like a carcass. 

A shell, not a person. 

Somehow, that too had been left behind. 

Hurting. 

Guilt. Masked by hope. 

Because no matter how much he convinced himself that it wasn’t the case, he had still run. His pride was hurt. Reduced to what he’d been, since he was a child - a coward. 

Again, he’d been a coward. 

As bruised and battered, as cold and hard, his body had carried him away from conflict, for a second time. Carried him away from another kind of war. 

And something more. 

Knowing now that it wasn’t only the land that had made him feel alive back then. 

It wasn’t just the biting cold, the crystals on his lashes, the open starry skies. Not the quiet, not the dark, not the air. 

Life had fueled him in a different sense, made him see sense when everything else was hard to grasp. 

Had kicked him into action, gotten him here, into safety. 

That didn’t come from the trees, or their branches or their roots. 

It had come from him. 

  
  
  


\--

  
  


As spring was passing, summer should be light. 

Should be easy. 

Less work, more free time. 

Time to find more cause. 

He expected this, anticipated this. 

But it didn’t come. 

  
  


Something else came. 

  
  


He stumbled upon it one day. 

It was an article, as small as any other, in the morning paper. Next to columns and recipes, a tiny square with the picture of a woman. 

A woman who he’d never seen. But the writing caught his eye. 

Froze his blood. 

Made him stiff. 

Flipping between the pages. 

Finding the right page number. 

In bold letters, there was a heading. Skimming through the text. 

Leaving the cup of coffee cold. 

Sitting in silence. 

  
  


Survivor. 

  
  


Her father, brutally killed. 

A truckload of people. 

Bodies in the snow. 

Tyre tracks, black marks, limbs spreading everywhere, unnatural poses. 

The pictures. 

So familiar. 

Restricted, suddenly. 

  
  


Going back to the beginning, reading more in depth, desperate to find more. His heart beating, mouth staying open - it came to him, more clear than ever, the images, the memory, clear as a day - the smell of the cellar, the torch in his hand, kneeling on the floor. 

Hard to breathe. 

Four men were responsible, snipers, waiting for the call. 

And the victims. Their faces on the page. 

Escapees. People who wanted to flee, sympathists from the other side, hiding in a truck waiting to go across the border. Some natives, some refugees. 

It only took one shot. 

One man, of the three, acted prematurely. 

They were thrown off the road. 

No survivors. 

Stripped off their titles, they were all punished. 

Tony. 

Alex. 

Mark. 

Elim. 

  
  


Further down, there was a quote from a world war novel, about honouring the dead. 

Keeping them alive, in memory. 

Punishing the guilty. 

Never forgiving. 

Not much more detail. 

Investigation going on, across the borders, only relevant because some of the victims had belonged to their side. 

Their faces printed next to each other on the matte, white paper. 

Their names, birth dates, death dates. 

Spouses. 

Children. 

Relatives. 

Four years since it happened. 

Coming to light now, when actions had consequences. When they weren’t shielded behind excuses of war, and hidden by the military, politicians, world leaders. 

  
  


Four men, one shot. 

Who had done it? 

Didn’t matter. 

Nothing around this mattered anymore. 

Casualties. 

Their faces, happy smiles. The ones that could be identified. 

This was all that was left. 

Didn’t matter anymore. 

He closed the page, grabbed his keys and left for work. 

  
  


—

1483 days. 

Didn’t ask for this. 

Just wanted to move on, let this new life devour him. 

Bite him. 

Hold him tight. Keep him steady. 

  
  


Breathe. 

In, out. 

Steady. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Saw that picture again. Saw their faces. 

One shot. 

Had it been his? 

It didn’t matter. He had still been involved. 

It didn’t matter. 

This wasn’t relevant anymore. 

He had left all of this behind, two years ago, left it to be forgotten. 

Wasn’t his fight anymore. 

One. 

Two. 

He was a civilian now. 

Three. 

Four. 

Five. 

And Julian Bashir was dead. 

  
  


— 

  
  


Everywhere he looked, he saw his face. 

At the clinic. On the street. Getting his food, taking his walks. 

Long hair. 

Plaid shirt. 

Prior to this, it was like he had forgotten. Memories were vivid, but the one thing which he never could picture were the features of his face. 

Now they were here. 

Everywhere. 

In boys, in men. Even in women. 

  
  


Had to take a week off of work. 

One week to gather his thoughts. 

Clean his head. Get rid of this nightmare. 

  
  


One week. 

That alone felt like a curse. 

He had done this before. 

Then ended up here. 

Determined to not let it happen again. He didn’t want to move again, didn’t want to shake things up and start a new life. What was the point? 

This man was far away. 

He saw his face, but he wasn’t there. 

Not physically. 

Not like he remembered him. 

Wasn’t anywhere near. 

Just take a breath. 

It had been two years. 

Wasn’t as fresh, was just a dream. A bad, bad dream. 

One that he could forget about if he wanted to. 

And there lied the problem. 

Wouldn’t forget it. 

Couldn’t forget it. 

And in the end, didn’t even want to forget it. 

  
  


There it was. 

Plain and simple. 

  
  


— 

  
  


It came in the mail. Like it had been calculated. 

Planned out. 

Innocent at first. 

Just a medium sized, wrapped up parcel, sitting innocently by the door. 

No note, just his address. 

Sent for Simon. 

No suspicion. 

Chucked it to the side with the rest of his bills, not thinking about it until later. Coming back from a walk to the cliffs, seeing the brown paper and the neatly written card. 

Suddenly a lump in his throat.

Slowly going to pick it up. 

Slowly putting it down on the table. 

Slowly starting to cut the thread open, hesitating, staring, examining the package before finally giving in with a snip. Wrapping up what was hidden inside. 

Just staring. 

There it was. 

Plain, and simple. 

One detail which he had forgotten, amongst the torture and the tears. 

Perfectly sewn, smooth against his fingertips. 

The jacket. 

The trousers. 

Lifting it up. 

Tailored to perfection. 

A full suit. 

He’d never held something so personal. So neatly put together, for his body, only his own, nobody else’s. Created for this carcass. 

Staring at it for minutes, not being able to move. Then suddenly so fed up by it that he had to throw it to the side - leave it there for minutes while he just paced around the space, thinking, allowing himself to feel. 

Went back, held it up again. 

Practically throwing his clothes off. Running to the mirror. 

It fit. A little differently, but it came on smoothly. 

Arms were slightly tighter. Shoulders slightly wider, but the waist was the same - the fabric as soft as he remembered, as strong as leather, manipulated into place. Tidied up, folded neatly, every seam tucked perfectly. 

It was beautiful. 

And the image came back. 

That afternoon, in the shop. 

Hands on his waist. Measure tape down his arm. Whispers in his ear. 

His outer so disturbed, unworthy of this garment. 

Now suddenly, it looked right. 

There was Julian. 

There he was. 

How long had he been gone for? 

Trickling down his body like liquid, beautiful against his naked skin. 

Running back to the parcel, tearing the paper whilst looking -

No note. 

No word. 

Just that card, with his name - but not his, it wasn’t anymore. 

Simon. 

He knew. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Why now? 

  
  


After all this time, after waiting and breaking and changing. Going above the expected to break into a new world, a different place. 

All this time, but now attempt. All this time, no second left for wishing, no allowing himself to hope. Confliction. No explanation, no reassuring that it had all been a misunderstanding. Knowing deep down that it most likely wasn’t. Or was it? Unable to go through the heartbreak, the pain that came with admitting that this man had been so much more than just a man.

A soldier. 

A murderer. 

The war crime stamp on his forehead. 

Responsible for a truckload of bodies, staining white with red. 

Responsible for the aftermath, the families losing loved ones. The eventual conflict that would come with it. 

Exile. 

Seclusion. 

That’s why he’d lived all by himself. 

That’s why he’d been far away from population, answering for his crimes. 

A mild punishment. 

Yet he’d carried the body of a dying field doctor, back into safety. He’d nursed him. Cooked for him, washed him, entertained him. A field doctor from the other side. A field doctor who would eventually become his lover. 

Where did that fit into the picture? 

It didn’t. 

It was an abnormality. 

Messed up the whole scenario, all of the facts. 

Muddled his thoughts. 

Brain just not coping. 

  
  


Now, with this parcel, came that admitting. Came the anger, the feeling of being split in two. 

Wanting to believe that it had all been a mistake.

Guilt. 

Hunger. 

Hate. 

Justifying.

Detesting. 

Missing. 

  
  


He needed answers. 

But he couldn’t get them here. 

It would eat at him, scratch in his head. 

A sick reminder that came out of nowhere. Came tumbling, roaring, breaking into his reality - all at the same time. 

  
  


But he couldn’t go back. 

Never step his foot upon that land. 

Giving in. 

Breaking down. 

  
  


Giving up all of this - this peaceful life, this new reality, a home and a flat and a name that he had built up, to protect himself in the future. Protect himself from this. 

This very thing. 

This pitiful wanting. 

Wanting to believe that he’d been wrong.

But that doesn’t happen in reality. 

Not in real life, where men make men, and conflict grows wild wherever humans are near. 

Never black or white. 

Never right or wrong. 

Two sides of a coin. 

  
  


It would never come. 

Laughable, that he would end up like this. 

After all growth. 

After turning himself away. 

Back in the pit again. 

Had gone so far. 

Found security. 

Stability. 

Finally. 

Anonymity. 

  
  


He couldn’t ever let it go. 

Couldn’t. 

Wouldn’t ever allow that to happen. 

  
  


It was finally getting warmer again, snowy walls thawed up all around him. 

No need for questioning - 

Summer should be here. 

It should be getting easier. 

  
  


\-- 

Showed up at the library with the article in hand. 

Pacing through shelves, displays, people silently walking back and forth. Titles and titles and titles, all around.

A maze guided by letters. 

Finding the reception, greeted with a smile, given a slip of paper with a password, and a time slot. Circled neatly with a red marker. His new name penciled carefully underneath. 

Finding the study area, busy with books and research machines, empty of people except for an older man, glasses on the tip of his nose, shirt casually unbuttoned by the neck. 

Eye contact, then nod. 

Choosing a machine carefully. 

Sitting down.

Taking a deep breath. 

Leaning in. 

Letting his mind take over. 

Think academically. 

Almost medically. 

Switching over to that side of him, that hadn’t been touched in a decade. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Dive in. 

Deep. 

This was a place of answers. 

Didn’t take long before he’d found what he’d been looking for. 

Methodically cancelling out sections of different papers. 

Paragraphs of memorials. 

Details of officers. 

Names after names, badly translated columns, pieces written in a foreign tongue. 

But it was there. 

All there. 

At his grace. 

Not all answers, 

but some. 

  
  
  


\-- 

Week was coming to an end. 

Nights were getting brighter. 

Sleep more sparse. 

And he was humming with anticipation. 

Shutting down by overwhelm. 

Growing different. 

Changing shape. 

Shedding skin. 

Emerging. 

No stronger. Just different. 

Losing doubt. 

Losing patience. 

Feeling sick, feeling crippled. 

Seeing it all fade away, and turn into nothing. All of it. This town, these people, places, routines. 

Dead. 

No more dying. 

Defeat. 

Nothing left but his pride. 

And it was all, slowly, crumbling away. 

  
  


\-- 

  
  


Vibrations again, almost lulling him to sleep. 

Still wide awake. 

Focused on the road ahead. 

Never losing awareness of the parcel in the corner of his eye. The brown, textured paper, on the gray passenger’s seat.

Letting the road take its course. 

Studying the coast as it guided him upwards. 

Less colours. Pulling him in. 

Into it. 

Returning. 

Feeling inevitable now. 

Always would have been. Completely inevitable. Just a waiting game, a self built cage. 

His pride only kept him this long.

Now here he was. 

In this vehicle. 

Not going back. 

No point in that. 

Seeking the cold. Seeking biting, brutal wretchedness. Tearing at his soul with the ice, tearing it down. Needing it now. Again. 

Whatever was waiting, whatever he’d meet, at least there would be some kind of answer in this visit. 

Possibly. 

Body almost floating on its seat. 

Feeling sick with anxiety. 

Heart pumping blood. 

Filling up. 

Draining. 

Asphalt flying by. 

Yards of wood, rocks, mountains. 

A tickle in his chest. 

Anxiety.

Nerves. 

He. 

Who had all of the answers. 

Whom he’d left, all by himself. 

What had it felt like? 

Being the one left behind, waking up to an empty house? 

Throughout his life, he’d always done the running. Never the opposite. 

Never stayed. 

Had he deserved it? 

Even with reasonable doubt? 

That face growing fuzzier for every day that went by. Features turning soft, by lack of memory, or repression. Nothing as vivid as it once had been. 

Emotionally still intact. 

  
  


Miles and miles. 

Steadier, faster. 

Barely any traffic. 

Building sites, workers by every corner. Creating once again something obliterated, swept away. 

All the way. Across the borders. 

Consistency in its chaos. 

Just less people.

More ruins. 

Trampled ground.

Molten snow. 

Dirt and slush. 

One two three. 

Beat. 

Letting sleepiness take over his racing head. 

Focusing solely on the road ahead. 

Suppressing that face. 

The touch on his body.

Feeling it still. 

Stronger the further north. 

Relaxed shoulders. 

Rest. 

Stare right ahead. 

Swallowed by the corridor of neverending greenery. 

It will come. 

So close. 

This inevitable thing. 

So close. 

  
  


The lurking fear of breaking again. Like a machine, falling apart. Scared of falling back into that pit and not being able to climb back up again. 

Ultimately, this is what it came to. 

This horrible underlying fact. 

Fear. 

So much charged, provoking fear. 

But he’d made his decision. 

No return. 

  
  


Not now. 

Not when he’d gone this far. 

  
  


\-- 

  
  


A few more miles. 

Getting closer as the sky tinted yellow. 

As passages seemed more and more familiar, his blood was starting to grow cold. 

Fighting off a squeeze around his throat. Dodging asphyxiation. 

Losing sight of the road. 

Trying to stay focused. 

This road. 

Almost intact, like he remembered it. 

Only greener. 

Full of life. 

  
  


Much of it he hadn’t seen, when he’d taken refuge in the cargo load, shut inside without windows. He’d tried to imagine what they were passing, what everything looked like, still scared of having to give it away. 

At that time, in his head, he saw the snow melting, the further south they went. 

But now, as the trees opened up, and the lake spread wide before his eyes, he felt a tug at his heart so hard he almost had to stop the car. 

This, he remembered. 

This passage. 

This lake, stretching wide. 

This. 

This.

Here. 

Where he’d fallen onto the snow covered ice, there was now water. 

Blue green, still in the sun. Mirroring the land. Curling slightly under the influence of the wind. Surrounded by bushes, greens, rocks and pebbles. Surrounded by straight lines, black and white birches, this narrow, rocky road. 

  
  


Stopped the car. 

  
  


Sat in his seat. 

Breathing quietly for a minute. 

Utter silence. 

  
  


Birds criss-crossing above, curious of his presence. 

  
  


Had to get out there. 

Leave the vehicle where it was parked, just to the side, it wouldn’t make a difference. 

No one would pass it. 

It was just him now. 

Stepping out. 

Feeling foreign. 

It was a different Julian that walked here now. 

A different body. 

Not as bruised. Not as weary. 

A body that had healed from most of its wounds.

It carried him down, following old, zigzag tyre tracks, simply breathing in the air that surrounded him. The smell of wet bark and moss. 

Walking into an embrace of branches, leaves and pine needles. Stepping on pinecones and rocks. 

This. 

At least he would get this. 

Whatever reaction lay ahead of him, whatever was left, if anything - it would be worth it for this. 

Taking this in. 

Following his subconscious. 

Under this new skin, muscle memory guiding the way. 

Onto this tiny path. 

  
  
  


Seeing their silhouettes ahead. Him and this man, on their way back from the tailor’s shop, rushing to escape the storm, going home to the warmth. 

Feeling so recent. Fresh, now when prompted by the location. Could have been this winter. Could have been yesterday. 

But it wasn’t. 

There had been two more years since he had last walked on this path. 

Ran it, in fear of being caught. 

Soaked it in. 

Refueled his center. 

Would keep this close. 

Cherish it. 

Every breath, every step. 

One step. 

Two steps. 

And then it came. 

A spot of wood, camouflaged between the trees. 

A roof. 

A window. 

Bedroom, kitchen. 

Gleaming like copper in the afternoon sun.

A rosy dew, laying thick around its walls.

This cabin. 

This little house. 

This haven. 

His defeat. 

Compressed chest.

A wave of anticipation. 

Not quite excitement. 

How could this be excitement? 

But it was, somehow. 

Nerves, unclarified. 

Just shaking, with every step. 

Walking quicker, the closer he got. 

A thousand scenarios running through his head. 

What now? 

He’d asked why, but never what. 

What would happen? 

Wasn’t just a smudge in the distance. 

It was there, bigger than he could remember. 

A few more metres away. 

The front door, a doorstep. 

A shovel leaning against the wall.

  
  


Pebbles laid down by the foundation.

Grass growing wild. 

A field he hadn’t seen before. Always covered by snow. 

Now green. 

Traces of dirt. 

So simple. 

Not embellished. 

Not made to look different. 

Just this home. 

Standing here. 

Right in front of him. 

Here. 

He couldn’t help himself. 

Quickened his pace, approached the step. 

Mind melting, vision blurry. 

Heart. 

Heart, don’t stop. 

It’s rhythm out of control. His breath dancing within his chest. 

Speed up. 

This raw, wretched need.

Needed to fill that blank, see his face - make his memory recall, the shape of his nose, the colour of his eyes. 

Raising a hand - going to knock, but stopping himself -- 

Trying the handle. 

Falling down smoothly by the weight of his hand. 

Door swinging open. 

Allowing him in. 

Into the pit. 

Into it -- 

Into silence. 

  
  


One step. 

  
  


Eyes adjusting. 

  
  


And there towered something which he hadn’t prepared for. 

  
  
  


Emptiness. 

  
  
  


Cold, dark walls. 

  
  


Not a piece of furniture, not a bookshelf, framed picture, wooden bench or linen curtains, not an open door, not a jacket or a pair of shoes. 

Dirtied, yellow wallpaper. 

Basking in the sunlight. 

Complete emptiness. 

  
  


Breathless. 

He evaporated, right there. 

  
  


All anticipation. 

Adrenaline. 

Gone with the stillness of the ruins of this house. 

Its shell. 

Barren. 

Bare. 

Devoid of what it had been. 

  
  


To him. 

  
  


A few steps in, leaving the door open behind. 

  
  


Had to see, if there was anything. 

A sign. 

Not just this. 

This couldn’t be the end of it. 

This couldn’t be. 

  
  


What he had built himself up to do -- this wouldn’t do it for him, it couldn’t. 

  
  


A sign, anywhere. 

  
  


Hardware left in the kitchen. 

A dinner table. 

  
  


Nothing else. 

Nothing but appliances. 

Burn marks from coffee cups on the naked, wooden tabletop. 

Even cupboards empty. 

No pictures, no postcard. 

Nothing. 

Frail breathing. 

  
  


Through to the bedroom. 

His heart still. 

Nothing in the wardrobes. 

No books, no sheets. 

  
  


Here, where he’d spent most of his time. 

Here, where his body had recovered. Wrapped up, bandaged. Burnt from frostbite. 

  
  


The bathroom, just as empty. 

  
  


The hallway. 

  
  


The living room. 

  
  


There was nothing. 

  
  


But as he turned, there was something. 

Just something -- 

  
  


On an empty shelf -- 

  
  


There. 

Framed like before, that picture. 

  
  


Two men. 

By each other’s side. 

  
  


Heart stuck in his throat, staring at the familiarity. 

  
  


The both of them, he knew. 

A younger version. 

They’d been left here, to be forgotten. 

  
  


Everything else gone. 

  
  
  


That’s when he thought of it. 

  
  


His one little chance. 

A spark of hope. 

Just a tiny spark. 

  
  


Enough to get him going. 

Throwing one last glance over his shoulder as he sprinted out the hallway, swinging the door shut, 

Then doing it again. 

Running down this path. 

  
  


Running like his life depended on it. 

Past branches, leafs, pine needles, rocks, cones and roots. 

Sprinting. 

Not looking back.

Picture fresh in memory. 

Running. 

Running. 

Running. 

Back to the lake, to the corridor of trees. Running between, searching with his eyes. 

Out of breath. 

A glimpse of metal, a flash - his car, rounding the waters to get to it, now cursing himself for leaving it. 

Over bushes, tussocks. 

Legs aching. 

Reaching. 

Pushing, this last bit. 

One second to recover. 

Into the car. 

Sweat dripping down his back, fumbling for keys, starting the engine, going. 

Driving. As fast as he dared to, in the opposite direction. 

Following a mental map, a two year old memory of a walk. 

The woods opening up, more houses along the road. 

This way? 

This way. 

Just following. 

Should be quick. 

Had been an hour to them before.

Sped up. 

Pushing thoughts out of his head, just clinging onto this hope. This last bit, last chance. 

Then he’d let it rest. If there was nothing here for him, he’d let it go,

Promised himself that, 

Just wished he’d be right. 

Head hammering. Pulse. Limbs. Tense, sore. 

Going faster. 

Almost crazy. 

Took him fourteen minutes. 

Ten of them too long. 

The last two, he was inside the village. Embraced by the untouched, almost identical, gray and green. Pavements and people, few but noticeable. The gas station, the corner shop. 

Rows of houses and signs. 

Only one that he was looking for. 

A black, simple sign. 

White letters. 

_ Atelier. _

  
  


The right street. Just down this road, stopping wherever, getting out of the car and looking for the right door. 

There. 

  
  


A light shining from inside. 

Heart stopping. 

Here. 

Stepping up.

Just open.

Just walk in. 

Almost bursting through the door. 

Still out of breath. 

Still sticky with sweat. 

Shirt stuck to his back. 

Shoes stained by all of the dirt. 

Jacket unzipped. 

Mouth slightly open. 

Stepping into this shop. 

Bursting in, full of confrontation. 

  
  


And there. 

Caught off guard. 

Expression empty at first, eyes focused on a task, 

A box in his hands. 

Turning to see what it was -- who it was. 

There. 

He stood tall. 

Wearing a shirt and dress trousers. 

Face stained by expressions.

Evident aging over the past two years. 

The memory of a fuzzy face, slowly tapping into clarity. 

Right there in front of him. 

This man. 

Staring. 

Graying hair, piercing eyes. 

Sharp as knives. 

Locking onto him. 

Meeting his mind. 

  
  


Absolute silence. 

  
  


Nothing but a faint humm, from the street outside. 

Nothing but that. 

Absolute silence. 

Just their gaze. 

Eyes. 

And then… Warmth. 

Chest vibrating.

Standing completely still. 

  
  


Garak.

Garak. 

  
  


Whom he’d pushed out of his memory, now sought out. 

There. 

Found. 

  
  


Turned towards him, completely in silence. 

Inside his shop. 

So many days. 

Seeing again. 

Open again.

Looking at him, from his safe, pleasant distance. 

In one motion, taking one step. 

Then another. 

Placing the box on a bench, gaining momentum, then one more step. 

Until he was there. 

Less than a metre away, never breaking their eye contact. 

  
  


Stillness, one second. 

  
  


Then a hand. 

Upon his arm.

Unable to feel anything but this. 

Raised further. 

To his head. 

His stubbly head, a stroke down its side.

Staying there, at the nape of his neck. 

  
  


Unable to think. 

Unable to move. 

Anything. 

Showered by inability. 

Just keeping contact. 

Then seeing a smile. 

So soft. 

So warm. 

  
  


And then relief became him. 

  
  
  


“Julian.” 

  
  


\--

  
  
  


Morning broke before he would sleep again. 

  
  


There was too much to process. 

Too much to be said. 

  
  


And he still wouldn’t be able to take it all in, not in one night, it would be too soon. Years of thinking in the wrong way, believing nothing but the worst would still haunt him, make it impossible to fully believe. 

But he knew some of it already. 

And what he’d researched had given him more clarity. 

  
  


They’d spend the whole night at the floor of the boxed up tailor shop, doing nothing but speaking, at length, around these circumstances. 

Starting with the past. Bleeding into the future. 

The attack. 

It was a mission. Special ops, the four men, two of whom Julian knew. 

The man in the picture, and Garak himself. Comrades in arms. Friends. Brothers.

None of them knew. Hadn’t been told in detail, just what they were to do. 

They waited two days in their assigned positions. 

Speculating. 

Could be weapons. Medical aid, information.

Laughing, drinking vodka to keep warm. 

Waiting. Hours upon hours. 

When they finally figured it out, it was too late. 

Parted at different sites. 

The truck arrived. Speeding. 

The other man had shot. 

Suspecting nothing. 

  
  


It was a horrible accident. Off the road, crashing into the woods. 

  
  


Cracking, screaming, bones breaking. 

Doors swung open. 

Blood. 

So much of it. 

Children. 

Families. 

Symphathists, refugees. 

People. 

One shot who caused it. 

One person who hadn’t carried that seed of doubt. 

His friend. 

His brother. 

According to Garak, he had continued to shoot. Once he’d realised what he had done, he was consumed. By fear of getting caught. By fear of what would be done by him. 

Told the others that they were responsible too, that they needed to end it.

No witnesses. 

It had been an order. 

But it was too public. 

People had found out. 

Unable to bury it, they had all been punished, put to blame by the very people who had ordered them to take action -- someone had to pay, and it was simple. 

Scapegoats. 

War criminals. 

Publicly accused, they had acted with hostility. Malevolence. Intent to kill. 

One was sent to a Helsinki prison.

Three were sent into isolation. 

Stripped of their rights. Stripped of communication. 

Living with their guilt for the rest of their lives. 

Until it came into light, when the war was over. 

Leaked documents. 

Some sort of justice. 

And Julian believed him. 

But it was hard to see past it. 

He had the answers, had found the documents, but the pictures were still vivid and impossible to forget. 

If it hadn’t been for the guilt, the self-induced punishment that he’d witnessed, he didn’t know what he’d believe. 

But it was there. 

Physical proof. 

Within this man, that had sat in front of him, and battled through this story. 

Forcing out the words, in broken English. 

After their sentences, he would get frequent visits. For years. Just to check in. 

On the first day he’d received word. 

His friend’s daughter had been a casualty. Inka. Her father rotting away in a prison in the capital. 

Wasn’t a coincidence. 

Just a punishment. 

For them all, who had known him. Who had known her. 

Just a warning. 

A reminder. 

Not to tell. Never to tell. 

Then the visits grew less frequent, and eventually, they almost went away.

Until Julian came.

Until Julian had to hide, in that basement, tucked away. 

Who knows what could have been done to him.

  
  


He could barely process it. Frustrated by the mere uttering of Garak’s words, describing something so horrendous and heart wrenching. His own experiences fading in comparison. 

But it wasn’t supposed to be a comparison. 

And he was more than thankful for having lived, having survived his own battles. 

The one he was currently going through. 

And he felt numb. 

So overwhelmed by the journey, the cascade of emotions. 

Shutting them off after hours of conversation, just being. 

Just indulging in the conversation.

Finally being open. 

Honest. 

Garak looked different. 

It had hit him when he first saw him, the evident aging, how two more years of isolation had treated him. 

A heartbreak. That he had caused. 

Surviving on his own. 

Surviving, until the war was over. 

Adding to this punishment for something he wasn’t responsible for. 

But Julian hadn’t believed him. 

Garak had moved out the same day. 

Sent the parcel as a final gift. 

Looked him up, not with ill intent, just so that he could give this final gift, then leave. 

Only returned to pack up the atelier. 

Left the most cherished for last. 

It was important to him. 

His only source of joy, during all of these years. 

  
  


And now, he was to leave. 

  
  


“Where?” He’d asked. 

  
  


“Wherever,” was the reply. 

  
  


And Julian understood. 

Fully.

Completely. 

  
  


He told his story of finding home. 

Finding something new. 

Leaving out the horrid details, only mentioning the good. 

  
  


And after explaining and discussing, coming to terms, allowing healing, he mentioned the suit. 

  
  


“It is beautiful.” 

  
  


And Garak smiled. 

That hearty, silent smile. Warm. Breaking through his icy gray eyes. 

Showing a glimpse of what they had had before. 

And his heart couldn’t stop bleeding. 

  
  


“I couldn’t part with it at first. 

But I knew that it didn’t belong to me.” 

  
  


He was so grateful that he’d sent it. 

If anything, to put this hatred aside. 

To be able to come back here. 

To receive all of this - all that he had gained, from the moment he stepped out of his car. 

The surroundings, the memories. 

Coming back and boiling up. 

It broke him. 

And he started to cry. 

For the first time in so long, he was able to let it go. And just cry. 

Just feel pity. For this man, for himself. For all that their brothers had gone through, their people, on different sides but of the same flesh and bones. 

The same beliefs. 

Forced into this constant, unavoidable hatred. 

Pulling them apart. Still fighting to stay together. 

He cried silently, in another’s company. 

Just feeling the stillness. 

Embracing it until he was empty. 

Deprived of pity. 

  
  


“It wears my heart, Doctor. Knowing what we’ve survived.” 

  
  


“Why us?” 

  
  


“That’s an ancient question.” 

  
  


He smiled. 

  
  


“And it won’t have an answer any time soon.” 

  
  
  


They sat in peace. 

In silence. 

  
  


Until the sun went up again, full in its brightness. Providing warmth, even in this part of the country. 

A sense of security, here, where they’d been sheltered. 

Here where people lived like normal. 

Pretending. 

Still changed, from what it had been before. 

A world completely changed, for him. 

For them. 

Clueless as to what to do now. 

Whatever the next step was. 

But they’d find out. 

There was still so much to be said. 

  
  


\-- 

  
  


They ended up taking the walk back to the house. Knowing it was empty, it was more for the sake of it. To relive it, without having to speak of the sentiment. 

Feeling the difference, and coming to terms with it. 

  
  


Not just the weather. The anthills, the barren crowns of trees, berry bushes, birds returning up north. 

  
  


The wind. 

The whispers. 

The roughness, keeping them separate. 

Secluded from all else. 

  
  


All conflict. 

Catching glimpses of new things. 

Garak’s hands, hardened and bruised. 

His walk, a little straighter. 

A little more free. 

Accepting this freedom. Being able to renew himself, return to somewhere where he’d be able to live again.

Live a life that he chose. 

Not just exiled, on a piece of land. 

  
  


But Julian was grateful for this land. That was here, when he’d needed it. 

That had brought their unexpected meeting. 

Without it, he’d be dead. 

  
  


And he could smell that, in the air. 

The sheer luck.

Or fate. 

Although he didn’t believe in it, he couldn’t deny its possibility. 

Especially not here. 

They sat down on the doorstep, where they’d spent nights before, days ago, months ago, years ago. Took off their shoes. Their socks. 

Peeled off a layer of jacket, rested bare feet on rocks and pebbles. 

Soaked it in.

Basked in the sun, in the surroundings, so vivid. 

Feeling. 

  
  
  


And here was something which he never thought that he would find. 

  
  
  


Expecting some kind of peace. Some kind of clarity. 

Maybe some answers, or a notion to confirm his suspicions. 

  
  
  


But he hadn’t expected closure. 

  
  
  


So rare, so raw. Enveloping his heart and his mind. 

Feeling it settle. 

Next to this man. 

He’d gotten more than he ever could have hoped of getting. 

All from the decision of returning back here. 

All from going against his natural instincts, to flee. 

Here. 

Tight. 

Safe. 

Dirty, rugged but happy. Somewhere, there was a seed of contentment. Somewhere deep inside, there. 

And it wasn’t a temporary fix, it was real this time. 

It came from him. Not from circumstances. 

It came from his return. 

The ground rumbled from underneath their feet. 

Skin heated by the sun. 

Wind sweeping over his clothes, over the grass. 

He could just be. 

Right there, he could just be. 

And see. 

And feel. 

An arm against his arm. 

A presence, so calm. 

As broken as his own. 

As content, right by his side. 

  
  


And beautiful. 

The most beautiful man that he had ever come across. 

His hardened soul.

Full of grace. 

  
  


He felt a hand, trail up his back, following his spine up to his neck. The palm resting softly against the stubble, fingers stroking slowly behind his ear. 

He leaned to the side. 

Let his head fall upon a shoulder. 

Feel his body pressed against another. 

Warm, and still. 

And finally hearing it again. 

That heartbeat. 

That slow, steady rhythm. 

Grabbing him. Rocking him. Rooting him to the earth. 

Rooting him to the ground. 

Rooting him here. 

Those cuts were healed. 

They could finally pull him in again. 

And he breathed. 

As normal. 

Breathed quietly, in unison. 

In.

Out. 

One.

Two.

  
  


Supported by all his strength.

Feeling finally at home. 

What he’d been searching for, ever since he left. 

Ever since he was reborn. 

Out here. 

Saved by the grace of this man’s hands. 

And he could only find it here. 

Only find it where their hearts could beat in peace. 

  
  
  


Where they grew roots. 

Where they were whole. 

  
  
  


“Stay.” 

  
  
  
  



End file.
